William Blake

(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 / London)

William Blake
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an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of both the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. His prophetic poetry has been said to form "what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language". His visual artistry has led one contemporary art critic to proclaim him "far and away the greatest artist Britain has ever produced". Although he lived in London his entire life except for three years spent in Felpham he produced a diverse and symbolically rich corpus, which embraced the imagination as "the body of God", or "Human ... more »

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Quotations

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  • ''Truly, My Satan, thou art but a Dunce,
    And dost not know the Garment from the Man.
    Every Harlot was a Virgin once,
    Nor can'st thou ever change Kate into Nan.''
    William Blake (1757-1827), British poet, painter, mystic. For the Sexes: The Gates of Paradise (Epilogue, l. 1-4). . . The Complete Poems [William...
  • I see every thing I paint in this world, but everybody does not see alike. To the eyes of a miser a guinea is more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful propo...
    William Blake (1757-1827), British poet, painter, engraver. letter, Aug. 23, 1799. The Letters of William Blake (1956).
  • ''For where'er the sun does shine,
    And where'er the rain does fall,
    Babe can never hunger there,
    Nor poverty the mind appall.''
    William Blake (1757-1827), British poet, painter, mystic. Holy Thursday (l. 13-16). . . The Complete Poems [William Blake]. Alicia Ostriker, ed. (...
  • Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude. We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere ...
    William Blake (1757-1827), British poet, painter, engraver. letter, Aug. 23, 1799. The Letters of William Blake (1956).
  • ''Is this a holy thing to see
    In a rich and fruitful land,
    Babes reduced to misery,
    Fed with cold and usurous hand?''
    William Blake (1757-1827), British poet, painter, mystic. Holy Thursday (l. 1-4). . . The Complete Poems [William Blake]. Alicia Ostriker, ed. (19...
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Comments about William Blake

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  • kim kate (3/28/2016 4:51:00 AM)

    He is one of my favourite poets

  • Andrew Winesteine (2/2/2016 2:04:00 PM)

    Snoopy, one day we shall all die. Yes. But on all the others, we don't have to.

  • Cory Mitchell (12/2/2015 7:14:00 AM)

    (a little boy lost) (a little boy found) they are to be read one after another

  • Anton K Anton K (11/5/2015 3:04:00 PM)

    Mysticism's lord and master.

  • Ben Failor (10/23/2015 1:32:00 AM)

    Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field. Let him look up into the heavens and laugh at the bright air. Let the inchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing. Who's face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years. Rise and look out, his chains are lose, his dungeon doors are open. And let his wife and children return from the oppressors scourge. They look behind at every step and believe it is a dream, singing the sun has left his blackness and found a fresher morning, and the fair moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night. For empire is no more, and now the lion and wolf shall sieze. ~ Blake

  • Charity Nduhiu Charity Nduhiu (9/4/2015 1:08:00 AM)

    William you are a great poem. Keep up the good work

  • Paola Degli Esposti (5/17/2015 5:41:00 AM)

    there is the sense of infinity

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (3/23/2015 2:28:00 AM)

    dear, mystic touch of your verses touch my heart.

  • Precious Jones (7/11/2014 3:34:00 PM)

    Greetings To You
    My name is precious I gone through your profile and
    it is quite interesting to me,

  • Liad Hani (6/14/2014 10:49:00 AM)

    it is great poem by william Blake :) .....

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Best Poem of William Blake

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Read the full of A Poison Tree
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