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Forgive what you do not approve & love me for this energetic exertion of my talent

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
Energetic
Forgive
Forgiving
Talent
Love
Approve
Exertion

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The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
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God appears, and God is Light, to those poor souls who dwell in Night but does a Human Form display to those who dwell in realms of Day.
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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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For Mercy has a human heart Pity, a human face: And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress.
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My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.
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He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
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Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
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Colouring does not depend on where the colours are put, but on where the lights and darks are put, and all depends on form and outline, on where that is put.
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Where cheating is, there's mischief there.
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Down the winding cavern we groped our tedious way, till a void boundless as the nether sky appeared beneath us, and we held by the roots of trees and hung over this immensity but I said: if you please we will commit ourselves to this void and see whether providence is here also.
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First thought is best in Art, second in other matters.
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England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?
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Art degraded, Imagination denied.
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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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The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
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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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The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
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Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy.
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Heaven is in a grain of sand.
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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.
William Blake