Quote

How sweet I roamed from field to field, And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide!

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
Summer
Glide
Fields
Beams
Pride
Tasted
Sweet
Beam
Love
Sunny
Prince
Till
Roamed
Field
Beheld

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Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
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Wisdom is sold in a desolate marketplace where none can come to buy.
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I love hanging and drawing and quartering Every bit as well as war and slaughtering.
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Energy is eternal delight.
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What seems to be, is, to those to whom it seems to be, and is productive of the most dreadful consequences to those to whom it seems to be, even of torments, despair, eternal death.
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God is the poetic genius in each of us.
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The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
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The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity... and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
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He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sun rise.
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Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
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A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
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General knowledges are those knowledges that idiots possess.
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Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty !
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification
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The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.
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The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won't believe. The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
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How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!
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Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share?
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