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I am going to that country which I have all my life wished to see.

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
Wished
Death
Country
Going
Life

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Mutual forgiveness of each vice. Such are the Gates of Paradise.
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Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
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Christ's crucifix shall be made an excuse for executing criminals.
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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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To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
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Forgive what you do not approve & love me for this energetic exertion of my talent
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Imagination is the real and eternal world of which this vegetable universe is but a faint shadow.
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There is no mistake so great as the mistake of not going on.
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Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves the feet of angels bright unseen they pour blessing, and joy without ceasing, on each bud and blossom, and each sleeping bosom.
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And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')
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The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.
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Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
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Prisons are built with stones of Law. Brothels with the bricks of religion.
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The moon, like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.
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Exuberance is beauty.
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Knowledge is Life with wings
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My Brother starv'd between two Walls,His Children's Cry my Soul appalls
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When nations grow old the Arts grow cold And commerce settles on every tree
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The Woman that does not love your Frowns Will never embrace your smiles.
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Joy and woe are woven fine.
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