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You throw the sand against the wind and the wind blows it back again.

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
Sand
Throw
Blow
Wind
Back
Blows

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Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
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Father, O father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear?
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Do what you will this life's a fiction, And is made up of contradiction.
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Energy is the only life, and is from the body and reason is the bound or outward circumference of energy. Energy is eternal delight.
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Art degraded, Imagination denied.
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The Man who pretends to be a modest enquirer into the truth of a self-evident thing is a Knave.
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Enthusiastic Admiration is the first Principle of Knowledge and its last.
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Everything is beautiful in its own way. Exuberance is beauty.
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Embraces are comminglings from the head even to the feet, And not a pompous high priest entering by a secret place.
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Man was made for joy and woe, and when this we rightly know through the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul to bind.
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You smile with pomp and rigor, you talk of benevolence and virtue I act with benevolence and virtue and get murdered time after time.
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The inquiry in England is not whether a man has talents and genius, but whether he is passive and polite and a virtuous ass and obedient to noblemen's opinions in art and science. If he is, he is a good man. If not, he must be starved.
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He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light than his perishing and mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all.
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Without Unceasing Practice nothing can be done. Practice is Art. If you leave off you are lost.
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The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
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He who sees the Infinite in all things sees God.
William Blake
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Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
William Blake
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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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Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
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Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache: do be my enemy for friendship's sake.
William Blake