William Blake (1757 – 1827)
English poet, Christian mystic, painter, printmaker, and engraver.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never bebeloved by men.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
And throughout all eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.
Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please; away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat’ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
Why art thou silent and invisible,
Father of Jealousy?
Every night, and every morn,
Some to misery are born.
Every morn, and every night,
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to endless night.
Children of the future Age
Reading this indignant page,
Know that in a former time
Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.
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.
When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend.
What is Grand is necessarily obscure to Weak men. That which can be made Explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.
Great things are done when men and mountains meet;
This is not done by jostling in the street.
How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
Till I the prince of love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
The sword sung on the barren heath,
The sickle in the fruitful field;
The sword he sung a song of death,
But could not make the sickle yield.
Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears—
Ah, she doth depart.
Soon as she was gone from me
A traveler came by
Silently, invisibly—
Oh, was no deny.
I asked a thief to steal me a peach:
He turned up his eyes.
I asked a lithe lady to lie her down:
Holy and meek, she cries.
As soon as I went
An angel came.
He winked at the thief
And smiled at the dame—
And without one word said
Had a peach from the tree,
And still as a maid
Enjoyed the lady.
The moon like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.