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 countless gold of a merry heart,The rubies and pearls of a loving eye,The indolent never can bring to the mart,Nor the secret hoard up in his treasury.
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit / Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? / Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod, / Or Love in a golden bowl?
I give you the end of a golden string; / Only wind it into a ball, / It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, / Built in Jerusalem's wall.
The grave is Heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait; O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold!
The fields from Islington to Marybone, To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold; And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.
Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius
Every Night and every MornSome to Misery are born.Every Morn and every NightSome are born to Sweet Delight,Some are born to Endless Night.
The Bat that flits at close of EveHas left the Brain that won't believe.The Owl that calls upon the NightSpeaks the Unbeliever's fright.
Then every man of every clime,That prays in his distress,Prays to the human form divine,Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
I must Create a System, or be enslaved by another Man's; / I will not Reason and Compare; my business is to Create.
Never seek to tell thy love, / Love that never told can be; / For the gentle wind does move / Silently, invisibly.
Swedenborg is the Angel sitting at the tomb: his writings are the linen clothes folded up.
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,Dreaming in the joys of night;Sleep, sleep; in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep.
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep.