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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.

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
Bosoms
Eternity
Divine
Shall
Imagination
Death
Body
Vegetative
World
Bosom

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And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love.
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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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Man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.
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A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
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To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
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In your own bosom you bear your heaven and earth, And all you behold, though it appears without, It is within, in your imagination, Of which this world of mortality is but a shadow.
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He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
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Since the French Revolution Englishmen are all intermeasurable one by another, certainly a happy state of agreement to which I forone do not agree.
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Joy and woe are woven fine.
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Listen to the fool's reproach! It is a kingly title!
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Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile?
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Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
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Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.
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My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.
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Commerce is so far from being beneficial to arts, or to empire, that it is destructive of both, as all their history shows, for the above reason of individual merit being its great hatred. Empires flourish till they become commercial, and then they are scattered abroad to the four winds.
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The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks.
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In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
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General good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocite, flatterer.
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Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go I turn my back to the east, From whence comforts have increased For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
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I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing, Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world's release.
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