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Father, O father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear?

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
Unbelief
Land
Fear
Father

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Although wine when it is read somewhat lacks the savour of wine when it is drunk, wine remains a very pleasant thing both to read about and to chat about.
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Pride is a personal commitment. It is an attitude which separates excellence from mediocrity.
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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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If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they'd immediately go out.
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Everything to be imagined is an image of truth.
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Some say that happiness is not good for mortals, & they ought to be answered that sorrow is not fit for immortals & is utterly useless to any one a blight never does good to a tree, & if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit, let none say that the fruit was in consequence of the blight.
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Energy is eternal delight.
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Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!
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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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One thought fills immensity.
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How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
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Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there God is dwelling too.
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You cannot have Liberty in this world without what you call Moral Virtue, and you cannot have Moral Virtue without the slavery of that half of the human race who hate what you call Moral Virtue.
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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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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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The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laugh'd And all the hills echoed
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