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Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm.
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
Dear
Healthy
Cold
Church
House
Mother
Ale
Pleasant
Warm
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One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.
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A tyrant is the worst disease, and the cause of all others.
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Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be. For the gentle wind does move silently.. invisibly.
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When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
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And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.
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O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass Night is worn And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.
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Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven,I oft have wished for Hell for ease from Heaven.
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Error is created truth is eternal.
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The atoms of Democritus And Newton's particles of light Are sands upon the Red Sea shore, Where Israel's tents do shine so bright.
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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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No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
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Fun I love, but too much fun is of all things the most loathsome. Mirth is better than fun, and happiness is better than mirth.
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The Errors of a Wise Man make your Rule Rather than the Perfections of a Fool.
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What seems to be, is, to those to whom it seems to be, and is productive of the most dreadful consequences to those to whom it seems to be, even of torments, despair, eternal death.
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The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.
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Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy? Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?
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