Quote

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.

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
White
Bereaved
Black
Bore
Mother
Bores
Light
Southern
Soul
Wild
Children
English
Angel
Child

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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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Every harlot was a virgin once.
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The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
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Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.
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If you have formed a circle to go into,Go into it yourself and see how you would do.
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Shame is pride's cloak.
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For Mercy has a human heart Pity, a human face: And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress.
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The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.
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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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The look of love alarms Because 'tis filled with fire But the look of soft deceit Shall win the lover's hire.
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Each man is haunted until his humanity awakens.
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The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, Joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee!
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I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
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To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.
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To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wildflower.
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A dog starv'd at the master's gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A horse misus'd upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear, A skylark wounded on the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing.
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I must create a system, or be enslav'd by another man's.
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Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
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Every tear from every eyeBecomes a babe in eternity.
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