William Blake

William Blake
William Blakewas an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. His prophetic works have been said to form "what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language". His visual artistry led one contemporary art critic to proclaim him "far and away the greatest artist Britain has ever produced". In...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPhilosopher
Date of Birth28 November 1757
The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom...for we never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.
The Desire of Man being Infinite, the possession is Infinite, and himself Infinite.
Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?
And Father, how can I love youOr any of my brothers more?I love you like the little birdThat picks up crumbs around the door.
And because I am happy and dance and sing,They think they have done me no injury.
And I made a rural pen, / And I stained the water clear, / And I wrote my happy songs / Every child may joy to hear.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
Father, O father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear?
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou build thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
The hand of Vengeance found the Bed To which the Purple Tyrant fled The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head And became Tyrant in his stead.
Since the French Revolution Englishmen are all intermeasurable one by another, certainly a happy state of agreement to which I forone do not agree.
Mutual forgiveness of each vice. Such are the Gates of Paradise.
Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!