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Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!

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
Away
Graves
Winding
True
Beat
Tempest
Made
Beats
Sheet
Love
Pass
Doth
Wind
Winds
Cold
Sheets
Tempests
Bring
Clay
Spade
Lying
Grave
Spades

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Abstinence sows sand all over The ruddy limbs and flaming hair, But desire gratified Plants fruits of life and beauty there.
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All the destruction in Christian Europe has arisen from deism, which is natural religion.
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Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
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The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
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The cut worm forgives the plow.
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Where there is money there is no art.
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How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!
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The true method of knowledge is experiment.
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To generalize is to be an idiot.
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Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained and the restrainer or reason usurps its place & governs the unwilling. And being restrain'd it by degrees becomes passive till it is only the shadow of desire.
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thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.
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Some say that happiness is not good for mortals, & they ought to be answered that sorrow is not fit for immortals & is utterly useless to any one a blight never does good to a tree, & if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit, let none say that the fruit was in consequence of the blight.
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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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The generations of men run on in the tide of time, but leave their destined lineaments permanent for ever and ever.
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Mutual forgiveness of each vice. Such are the Gates of Paradise.
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments let us taste Thy morn and evening breath scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
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I will not cease from mental fight Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
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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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