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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
Beloved
Shall
Hurt
Littles
Little
Never
Men
Wren
Wrens

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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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There is a place where Contrarieties are equally True.
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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Lives in eternity's sun rise.
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Error is created truth is eternal.
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The human mind cannot go beyond the gift of God, the Holy Ghost. To suppose that art can go beyond the finest specimens of art that are now in the world is not knowing what art is it is being blind to the gifts of the spirit.
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The Britons (say historians) were naked, civilized men, learned, studious, abstruse in thought and contemplation naked, simple, plain in their acts and manners wiser than after ages.
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One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.
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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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O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read.
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In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
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Everything is beautiful in its own way. Exuberance is beauty.
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I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.
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The soul of sweet delight, can never be defiled.
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To Chloe's breast young Cupid slily stole, But he crept in at Myra's pocket-hole.
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One thought fills immensity.
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.
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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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Both read the Bible day and night, but thou read black where I read white.
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