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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
Little
Never
Men
Wren
Wrens
Beloved
Shall
Hurt
Littles

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The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The indolent never can bring to the mart, Nor the secret hoard up in his treasury.
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If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they'd immediately go out.
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I see the Past, Present & Future existing all at once Before me.
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God forbid that Truth should be confined to Mathematical Demonstration!
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Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast.
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He who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence.
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I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love.
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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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Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
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My Brother starv'd between two Walls,His Children's Cry my Soul appalls
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And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
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The spirits of the air live on the smells Of fruit and joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.
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I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.
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Do what you will this life's a fiction, And is made up of contradiction.
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The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
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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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