Quote

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.

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
Love
Kissing
Pearls
Thee
Winds
Sick
Eastern
Perfumed
Taste
Hills
Mourns
Wind
Kiss
Morn
Land
Breath
Scatter
Upon
Breaths
Garments
Come
Evening
Mourn

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Make your own rules or be a slave to another man's.
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Everything is beautiful in its own way. Exuberance is beauty.
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Christ's crucifix shall be made an excuse for executing criminals.
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The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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Man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: Pipe a song about a Lamb. So I piped with merry cheer Piper, pipe that song again. So I piped he wept to hear.
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Come live, and be merry, and join with me, To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!
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The world of imagination is the world of eternity.
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Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.
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He who would do good to another must do it in Minute Particulars: general Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and flatterer, for Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.
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Nothing is real beyond imaginative patterns men make of reality.
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thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.
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I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love.
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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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The Woman that does not love your Frowns Will never embrace your smiles.
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Poetry fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and music are destroyed or flourish.
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All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
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In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.
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I must create a system, or be enslav'd by another man's.
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