William Blake (1757 – 1827)
English poet, Christian mystic, painter, printmaker, and engraver.
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!'weep!
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
But Want of Money & the Distress of A Thief can never be alleged as the Cause of his Thieving, for many honest people endure greater hard ships with Fortitude. We must therefore seek the Cause else where than in want of Money for that is the Misers passion, not the Thiefs.
If you have formed a circle to go into,
Go into it yourself and see how you would do.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black as if bereaved of light.
He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars;
General good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and flatterer:
For art and science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.
You'll quite remove the ancient curse.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
"For washed in life's river,
My bright mane forever
Shall shine like the gold
As Iguard o'er the fold."
When a Man has Married a Wife
He finds out whether
Her Knees & elbows are only
glued together.
My specter around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way,
My emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
I am sure this Jesus will not do
Either for Englishman or Jew.
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.