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He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.

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
Littles
Little
Never
Men
Wren
Wrens
Beloved
Shall
Hurt

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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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He who wants, but doesn't act, is a pest.
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How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?
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Time is the Mercy of Eternity
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Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.
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'Come hither, my boy, tell me what thou seest there?' 'A fool tangled in a religious snare.'
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Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime
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That the Jews assumed a right exclusively to the benefits of God will be a lasting witness against them and the same will it be against Christians.
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Gratitude, in itself, is heaven.
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Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there God is dwelling too.
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Every Night and every Morn Some to Misery are born. Every Morn and every Night Some are born to Sweet Delight, Some are born to Endless Night.
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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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Some will say, Is not God alone the Prolific? I answer, God only Acts & Is, in existing beings or Men.
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Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
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O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass Night is worn And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.
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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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When Sir Joshua Reynolds died All Nature was degraded
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Shame is pride's cloak.
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Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.
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He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars.
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