The Real Blake: A Portrait Biography
Chatto & Windus, 1907 - 443 pages
Philosopher. Luminary. Artist. William Blake was one of the best creative minds England ever produced. Discover his life with this fascinating biography.
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Page 415 - I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Page 375 - Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind : His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand: His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart...
Page 284 - On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air;) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
Page 80 - Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise, Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies.
Page 203 - I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical perception; but my senses discover'd the infinite in every thing; and as I was then perswaded, & remain confirm'd, that the voice of honest indignation is the voice of God, I cared not for consequences, but wrote.
Page 418 - Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes ; nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.
Page 381 - Memory and her siren daughters ; but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom He pleases.
Page 422 - I GIVE you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball ; It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall.
Page 284 - Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries. No more I weep: they do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land; With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.