Quote

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:While the Lily white shall in love delight,Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

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
Rose
Horns
Threat
Modest
Ning
Shall
Sheep
Lily
Beauty
Puts
Stain
White
Bright
Thorn
Love
Forth
Horn
Humble
Stains
Delight
Lilies

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She who dwells with me whom I have loved with such communion, that no place on earth can ever be solitude to me.
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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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The Woman that does not love your Frowns Will never embrace your smiles.
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You become what you behold.
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[L]et light Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant morning.
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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty !
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Exuberance is beauty.
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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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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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Invention depends altogether upon execution or organization as that is right or wrong so is the invention perfect or imperfect.
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I love hanging and drawing and quartering Every bit as well as war and slaughtering.
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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 when he has done this, let him not say that he knows better than his master, for he only holds a candle in sunshine.
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If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
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We are led to believe a lie When we see not through the eye.
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The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
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Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
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The mocker of Art is the mocker of Jesus.
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