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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.

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
Nothing
Contemptible
Bureaucracy
Suppose
Records
Public
True

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Knowledge of ideal beauty is not to be acquired. It is born with us. Innate ideas are in every man, born with him theyare truly himself.
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The most sublime act is to set another before you.
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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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Gratitude, in itself, is heaven.
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The soul of sweet delight, can never be defiled.
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Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.
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You throw the sand against the wind and the wind blows it back again.
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The person who does not believe in miracles surely makes it certain that he or she will never take part in one.
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[L]et light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant morning.
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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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Think not thou canst sigh a sigh And thy maker is not by Think not thou canst weep a tear And thy maker is not near.
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Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm.
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When Sir Joshua Reynolds died All Nature was degraded The King dropped a tear in the Queen's ear, And all his pictures faded.
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The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:While the Lily white shall in love delight,Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
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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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Man was made for joy and woe, and when this we rightly know through the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul to bind.
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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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My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
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Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
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Every man who is not an artist is a traitor to his own nature.
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