Quote

Although wine when it is read somewhat lacks the savour of wine when it is drunk, wine remains a very pleasant thing both to read about and to chat about.

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
Drunk
Although
Wine
Remains
Savour
Read
Chat
Thing
Lacks
Somewhat
Pleasant

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In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
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Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire.
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The difference between a bad artist and a good one is: the bad artist seems to copy a great deal the good one really does.
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A tyrant is the worst disease, and the cause of all others.
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To be an Error and to be Cast out is a part of God's Design.
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As I was walking among the fires of Hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius which to Angels look like torment and insanity, I collected some of their Proverbs.
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Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
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As a man is, so he sees. As the eye is formed, such are its powers.
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Where any view of money exists, art cannot be carried on.
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If a thing loves, it is infinite.
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To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wildflower.
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Mere enthusiasm is the all in all.
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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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Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.
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Reason, or the ratio of all we have already known, is not the same that it shall be when we know more.
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Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
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I love hanging and drawing and quartering Every bit as well as war and slaughtering.
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The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
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Each man is haunted until his humanity awakens.
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For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.
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