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One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.

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
Alone
Makes
Power
Poet
Divine
Vision
Imagination

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We are not meant to resolve all contradictions but to live with them and rise above them.
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The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
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I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing, Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world's release.
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The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
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Works of Art can only be produc'd in Perfection where the Man is either in Affluence or is Above the Care of it.
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A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
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But when he has done this, let him not say that he knows better than his master, for he only holds a candle in sunshine.
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Reason, or the ratio of all we have already known, is not the same that it shall be when we know more.
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Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
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I am under the direction of messengers from Heaven daily and nightly.
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Colouring does not depend on where the colours are put, but on where the lights and darks are put, and all depends on form and outline, on where that is put.
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Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
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As we are, so we see.
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O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine there hast thou build thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
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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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Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
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For everything that lives is holy, life delights in life.
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The world of imagination is the world of eternity.
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He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.
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Imitation is criticism.
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