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I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing, Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world's release.

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
Release
Pity
Mercy
Angel
Singing
Heard
Peace
World
Springing

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Everything is beautiful in its own way. Exuberance is beauty.
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What is a wife and what is a harlot? What is a church and what is a theatre? are they two and not one? Can they exist separate? Are not religion and politics the same thing? Brotherhood is religion. O demonstrations of reason dividing families in cruelty and pride!
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The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.
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Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green.
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Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.
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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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Without Unceasing Practice nothing can be done. Practice is Art. If you leave off you are lost.
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The eye altering, alters all.
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When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
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When a Man has Married a WifeHe finds out whetherHer Knees & elbows are onlyglued together.
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Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so? He replied, All poets believe it does. And in ages of imagination, this firm persuasion removes mountains but many are not capable of firm persuasion of anything.
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My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.
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For everything exists and not one sigh nor smile nor tear, one hair nor particle of dust, not one can pass away.
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Demonstration, similitude & harmony are objects of reasoning. Invention, identity & melody are objects of intuition.
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The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.
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Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!
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The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
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The fields from Islington to Marybone, To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.
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Everything to be imagined is an image of truth.
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The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
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