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Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast.
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
Best
Strive
Striving
Band
Breast
Struggle
Struggling
Upon
Weary
Father
Bands
Mother
Breasts
Hands
Bound
Thought
Bounds
Sulk
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Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.
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And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.
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Gratitude is heaven itself there could be no heaven without gratitude.
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Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm.
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Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so? He replied, All poets believe it does. And in ages of imagination, this firm persuasion removes mountains but many are not capable of firm persuasion of anything.
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Every harlot was a virgin once.
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Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime
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The man who never alters his opinions is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.
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When the doors of perception are cleansed, men will see things as they truly are, infinite.
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Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
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thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.
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Heaven is in a grain of sand.
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The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
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I cry, Love! Love! Love! happy happy Love! free as the mountain wind!
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I asked a thief to steal me a peach: He turned up his eyes. I asked a lithe lady to lie her down: Holy and meek, she cries. As soon as I went An angel came. He winked at the thief And smiled at the dame- And without one word spoke Had a peach from the tree, And 'twixt earnest and joke Enjoyed the lady.
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You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
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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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Thou art a man God is no more Thy own humanity Learn to adore
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Active Evil is better than Passive Good.
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