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Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven,I oft have wished for Hell for ease from Heaven.

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
Love
Wished
Grown
Ease
Till
Seven
Hell
Heaven
Times

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He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sun rise.
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Let every Christian, as much as in him lies, engage himself openly and publicly, before all the World, in some mental pursuit for the Building up of Jerusalem.
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How sweet I roamed from field to field, And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the prince of love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide!
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If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
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Auguries of innocence The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
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O why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race?
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Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
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Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache: do be my enemy for friendship's sake.
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The cut worm forgives the plow.
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He who makes his law a curse, by his own law shall surely die.
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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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Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire.
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As a man is, so he sees.
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And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles.
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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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For everything exists and not one sigh nor smile nor tear, one hair nor particle of dust, not one can pass away.
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I will not cease from mental fight Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
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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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But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
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God appears, and God is Light, to those poor souls who dwell in Night but does a Human Form display to those who dwell in realms of Day.
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