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The fields from Islington to Marybone, To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

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
Wood
Stood
Hills
Saint
Builded
Woods
Primrose
John
Pillars
Gold
Jerusalem
Fields
Hill

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I must create a system, or be enslav'd by another man's.
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Gratitude, in itself, is heaven.
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The grave is Heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold!
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If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they'd immediately go out.
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First thought is best in Art, second in other matters.
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He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.
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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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And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')
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He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity's sunrise.
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The person who does not believe in miracles surely makes it certain that he or she will never take part in one.
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It is not because angels are holier than men or devils that makes them angels, but because they do not expect holiness from one another, but from God only.
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Those who enter the gates of heaven are not beings who have no passions or who have curbed the passions, but those who have cultivated an understanding of them.
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Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.
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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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The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity... and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
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All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
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Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
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The moon, like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.
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thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.
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