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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
Hurt
Littles
Little
Never
Men
Wren
Wrens
Beloved
Shall

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To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wildflower.
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Demonstration, similitude & harmony are objects of reasoning. Invention, identity & melody are objects of intuition.
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He who makes his law a curse, by his own law shall surely die.
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If you would help another man, you must do so in minute particulars.
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The mocker of Art is the mocker of Jesus.
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I'm sure this Jesus will not do Either for Englishman or Jew.
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O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
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The hand of Vengeance found the Bed To which the Purple Tyrant fled The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head And became Tyrant in his stead.
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My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.
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Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire.
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The Stolen and Perverted Writings of Homer & Ovid, of Plato & Cicero, which all men ought to contemn, are set up by artifice against the Sublime of the Bible
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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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[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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To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.
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Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.
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Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go I turn my back to the east, From whence comforts have increased For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
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The pure soul shall mount on native wings, . . . and cut a path into the heaven of glory.
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I see the Past, Present & Future existing all at once Before me.
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Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile?
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