Quote

Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.

William Blake

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William Blake
Age: 69 †
Born: 1757
Born: November 28
Died: 1827
Died: August 12
Collector
Engraver
Graphic Artist
Illustrator
Lithographer
Painter
Philosopher
Poet
Printer
Theologian
London
England
W. Blake
Uil'iam Bleik
Blake
Talent
Pens
Dishonor
Dead
Despise
Degrade
Persons
Temper
Bury
Person
Pictures
Pencil
Terror
Verse
Shame
Pencils
Despair
Verses
Fame
Talents
Chastise

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The man who never alters his opinions is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.
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She who dwells with me whom I have loved with such communion, that no place on earth can ever be solitude to me.
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Dip him in the river who loves water.
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O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read.
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Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
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A skylark wounded in the wing, / A cherubim does cease to sing.
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When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
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He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars.
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Men are admitted into heaven not because they have curbed and governed their passions or have no passions, but because they have cultivated their understandings. The treasures of heaven are not negations of passion, but realities of intellect, from which all the passions emanate uncurbed in their eternal glory.
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The Fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so Holy.
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?
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As the caterpillar chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
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Nature has no outline. Imagination has.
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Expect poison from the standing water.
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To Chloe's breast young Cupid slily stole, But he crept in at Myra's pocket-hole.
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Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.
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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.
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When nations grow old the Arts grow cold And commerce settles on every tree
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