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
Every Mortal loss is an Immortal Gain. The Ruins of Time build Mansions in Eternity.
And now the time returns again: / Our souls exult, and London's towers / Receive the Lamb of God to dwell / In England's green and pleasant bowers.
The ruins of time build mansions in eternity.
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.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen?
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
Time is the mercy of Eternity; without Time's swiftness Which is the swiftest of all things, all were eternal torment.
The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
This life's dim windows of the soul Distorts the heavens from pole to pole And leads you to believe a lie When you see with, not through, the eye.
The hours of folly are measured by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure.
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.