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Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,Dreaming o'er the joys of night.Sleep, sleep: in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep.
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
Bright
Sorrow
Joy
Sleep
Beauty
Sorrows
Night
Weep
Dream
Joys
Dreaming
More quotes by William Blake
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.
William Blake
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves the feet of angels bright unseen they pour blessing, and joy without ceasing, on each bud and blossom, and each sleeping bosom.
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And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification
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Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
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The Errors of a Wise Man make your Rule Rather than the Perfections of a Fool.
William Blake
Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
William Blake
Energy is an eternal delight.
William Blake
What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price of all the man hath, his house, his wife, his children.
William Blake
The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there God is dwelling too.
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As a man is, so he sees. As the eye is formed, such are its powers.
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But when he has done this, let him not say that he knows better than his master, for he only holds a candle in sunshine.
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I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love.
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Nature has no outline. Imagination has.
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Every mortal loss is an immortal gain.
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First thought is best in Art, second in other matters.
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How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
William Blake
If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thru chinks of his cavern.
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The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
William Blake