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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.
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
Sold
Tongue
Cry
Soot
Died
Chimneys
Sleep
Sweep
Father
Scarcely
Mother
Young
Weep
More quotes by William Blake
For the Eye altering alters all The Senses roll themselves in fear And the flat Earth becomes a Ball.
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O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read.
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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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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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Imitation is criticism.
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Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
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Nothing is real beyond imaginative patterns men make of reality.
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A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
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Work up imagination to the state of vision.
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I must create a system, or be enslav'd by another man's.
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Opposition is true friendship.
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That the Jews assumed a right exclusively to the benefits of God will be a lasting witness against them and the same will it be against Christians.
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I cry, Love! Love! Love! happy happy Love! free as the mountain wind!
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Death is terrible, tho' borne on angels' wings!
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Mercy is the golden chain by which society is bound together.
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Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
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The Stolen and Perverted Writings of Homer & Ovid, of Plato & Cicero, which all men ought to contemn, are set up by artifice against the Sublime of the Bible
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There can be no Good Will. Will is always Evil it is persecution to others or selfishness.
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Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
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Men are admitted into heaven not because they have curbed or governed their passions, but because they have cultivate their understandings.
William Blake