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Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share?
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
Tears
Compassion
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More quotes by William Blake
Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast.
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The world of imagination is the world of eternity. It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after death of the vegetative body.
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The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
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Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude. We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere than in want of money, for that is the miser's passion, not the thief s.
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A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.
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And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification
William Blake
We are not meant to resolve all contradictions but to live with them and rise above them.
William Blake
Where any view of money exists, art cannot be carried on.
William Blake
Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
William Blake
Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.
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To some people a tree is something so incredibly beautiful that it brings tears to the eyes. To others it is just a green thing that stands in the way.
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When the voices of children are heard on the greenAnd laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breastAnd everything else is still.
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Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
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Gratitude is heaven itself there could be no heaven without gratitude.
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The spirits of the air live on the smells Of fruit and joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.
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The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
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More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.
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Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake
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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To my eye Rubens' colouring is most contemptible. His shadows are a filthy brown somewhat the colour of excrement.
William Blake
