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
I see the Fourfold Man; the Humanity in deadly sleep, / And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow. / I see the Past, Present, and Future existing all at once / Before me.
When a man has married a wife, he finds out whether / Her knees and elbows are only glued together.
When I tell any truth it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those who do.
The selfish smiling fool, and the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
I sometimes try to be miserable that I may do more work, but find it is a foolish experiment.
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.
Cruelty has a Human Heart, And jealousy a Human Face; Terror the Human Form Divine, And secrecy the Human Dress. The Human Dress is forged Iron, The Human Form a Fiery Forge, The Human Face a Furnace seal d, The Human Heart its hungry gorge.
Cruelty has a human heart, And jealousy a human face Terror, the human form divine, And secrecy, the human dress
And we are put on earth a little spaceThat we may learn to bear the beams of love.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
Father! father! where are you going? / O do not walk so fast. / Speak, father, speak to your little boy, / Or else I shall be lost.
Every year we are growing by leaps and bounds.
Excess of sorrow laughs, excess of joy weeps.
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