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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.

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
Butterfly
Judgement
Kill
Lasts
Last
Moth
Nigh
Moths

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Active Evil is better than Passive Good.
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Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.
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The ignorant Insults of Individuals will not hinder me from doing my duty to my Art
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The Goddess Fortune is the devil's servant, ready to kiss any one's ass.
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Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done Where the youth pined away with desire And the pale virgin shrouded in snow Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go.
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When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
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The eye sees more than the heart knows.
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Do what you will this life's a fiction, And is made up of contradiction.
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The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laugh'd And all the hills echoed
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And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification
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Nothing can be more contemptible than to suppose Public Records to be true.
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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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Mercy is the golden chain by which society is bound together.
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When Sir Joshua Reynolds died All Nature was degraded The King dropped a tear in the Queen's ear, And all his pictures faded.
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God forbid that Truth should be confined to Mathematical Demonstration!
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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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All the destruction in Christian Europe has arisen from deism, which is natural religion.
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My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
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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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