William Blake (1757 – 1827)
English poet, Christian mystic, painter, printmaker, and engraver.
The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
True superstition is ignorant honesty & this is beloved of god and man.
But most, thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new born Infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven,
I oft have wished for Hell for ease from Heaven.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,
Saying: "Wrath by his meekness,
And by his health, sickness,
Is driven away
From our immortal day."
The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.
The Old and New Testaments are the great code of art.
Both read the Bible day and night,
But thou read'st black where I read white.
…some say that Happiness is not Good for Mortals & they ought to be answerd that Sorrow is not fit for Immortals & is utterly useless to any one a blight never does good to a tree & if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit let none say that the fruit was in consequence of the blight.
Art can never exist without Naked Beauty displayed.
Abstinence sows sand all over
The ruddy limbs and flaming hair,
But desire gratified
Plants fruits of life and beauty there.
England! awake! awake! awake!
Jerusalem thy sister calls!
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death
And close her from thy ancient walls?
If a thing loves, it is infinite.
Active Evil is better than Passive Good.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
I must Create a System, or be enslav'd by another Man's;
I will not Reason and Compare: my business is to Create.
Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
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?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold,
Bring me my Arrows of desire,
Bring me my Spear—O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green & pleasant land.