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

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Since all the riches of this world May be gifts from the Devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshipp'd the Devil If I thank'd my God for worldly things.
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Every man who is not an artist is a traitor to his own nature.
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I am more famed in Heaven for my works than I could well conceive. In my brain are studies & chambers filled with books & pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of Eternity before my mortal life and whose works are the delight & study of Archangels. Why, then, should I be anxious about the riches or fame of mortality?
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Without minute neatness of execution, the sublime cannot exist! Grandeur of ideas is founded on precision of ideas.
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I have mental joys and mental health, Mental friends and mental wealth, I've a wife that I love and that loves me I've all but riches bodily.
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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 most sublime act is to set another before you.
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Everything is beautiful in its own way. Exuberance is beauty.
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The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won't believe. The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
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As a man is, so he sees.
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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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One thought fills immensity.
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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.
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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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Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.
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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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Gratitude is heaven itself there could be no heaven without gratitude.
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He who would do good to another must do it in Minute Particulars: general Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and flatterer, for Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.
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Hindsight is a wonderful thing but foresight is better, especially when it comes to saving life, or some pain!
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Ages are All Equal. / But Genius is Always Above The Age.
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