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And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.

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
Happy
Rural
Water
Pens
Song
Wrote
May
Songs
Children
Joy
Made
Hear
Every
Child
Clear
Stained

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The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laugh'd And all the hills echoed
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Commerce is so far from being beneficial to arts, or to empire, that it is destructive of both, as all their history shows, for the above reason of individual merit being its great hatred. Empires flourish till they become commercial, and then they are scattered abroad to the four winds.
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Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.
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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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When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend.
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Art is the tree of life. Science is the tree of death.
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Do what you will this life's a fiction, And is made up of contradiction.
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The generations of men run on in the tide of time, but leave their destined lineaments permanent for ever and ever.
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Ages are All Equal. / But Genius is Always Above The Age.
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When I tell the truth, it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those that do.
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Without minute neatness of execution, the sublime cannot exist! Grandeur of ideas is founded on precision of ideas.
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He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars.
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Life delights in life.
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Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
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But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
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The glory of Christianity is to conquer by forgiveness.
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If you have formed a circle to go into,Go into it yourself and see how you would do.
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The eye altering, alters all.
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The Vision of Christ that thou dost see, Is my vision's greatest enemy. Thine is the Friend of all Mankind, Mine speaks in Parables to the blind. Thine loves the same world that mine hates, Thy heaven-doors are my hell gates.
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The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.
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