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For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.
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
Rain
Sun
Poverty
Hope
Appall
Fall
Babe
Doe
Shine
Mind
Shining
Never
Hunger
More quotes by William Blake
The naked women's body is a portion of eternity too great for the eye of man.
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Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
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More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.
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If you trap the moment before it's ripe, The tears of repentence you'll certainly wipe But if once you let the ripe moment go You can never wipe off the tears of woe.
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One thought fills immensity.
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Error is created truth is eternal.
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I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.
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Mans desires are limited by his perceptions none can desire what he has not perceived.
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The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.
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A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation.
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And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification
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The Vision of Christ that thou dost see, Is my vision's greatest enemy. Thine is the Friend of all Mankind, Mine speaks in Parables to the blind. Thine loves the same world that mine hates, Thy heaven-doors are my hell gates.
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Every Night and every Morn Some to Misery are born. Every Morn and every Night Some are born to Sweet Delight, Some are born to Endless Night.
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The ruins of time build mansions in eternity.
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To my eye Rubens' colouring is most contemptible. His shadows are a filthy brown somewhat the colour of excrement.
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Love is weak when there is more doubt than there is trust, but love is most strong when you learn to trust even with all the doubts. If a thing loves, it is infinite.
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Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so?
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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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On no other ground Can I sow my seed Without tearing up Some stinking weed.
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There is a smile of love, And there is a smile of deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet.
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