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To take on Blake is not to be alone. Walk with him. William Blake writes ‘all is holy.’ That includes the book you are holding and the hand that holds it.
His voice was low as the whisperings of the woods when the wind is asleep,
‘Heavenly goddess! I am wrapped in mortality, my flesh is a prison, my bones the bars of death, Misery builds over our cottage roofs, and Discontent runs like a brook. Even in childhood, Sorrow slept with me in my cradle; he followed me up and down in the house when I grew up; he was my school-fellow: thus he was in my steps and in my play, till he became to me as my brother. I walked through dreary places with him, and in church-yards; and I oft found myself sitting by Sorrow on a tomb-stone!’
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn; O when shall I again return?’
A Dove house fill’d with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
Some are Born to sweet delight. Some are Born to sweet delight, Some are Born to Endless Night.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Joy even to tears, which the Sun rising dries: first the Wild Thyme And Meadow-sweet, downy & soft, waving among the reeds, Light springing on the air, lead the sweet Dance: they wake The Honeysuckle sleeping on the Oak; the flaunting beauty Revels along upon the wind; the White-thorn, lovely May, Opens her many lovely eyes: listening the Rose still sleeps, None dare to wake her; soon she bursts her crimson curtain’d bed
And comes forth in the majesty of beauty: every Flower, The Pink, the Jessamine, the Wall-flower, the Carnation, The Jonquil, the mild Lilly opes her heavens; every Tree And Flower & Herb soon fill the air with an innumerable Dance, Yet all in order sweet & lovely. Men are sick with Love.
The birds adore the sun: the beasts rise up & play in his beams, And every flower & every leaf rejoices in his light.
I am not here alone: my flocks, you are my brethren; And you birds that sing & adorn the sky, you are my sisters. I sing, & you reply to my song; I rejoice, & you are glad.
And soft sleep fell upon her eyelids in the silent noon of day.
Each morning, like a New born Man, issues with songs & joy
End of The Dream
No man can think, write, or speak from his heart, but he must intend truth. Thus all sects of Philosophy are from the Poetic Genius adapted to the weaknesses of every individual.
As none by traveling over known lands can find out the unknown, So, from already acquired knowledge, Man could not acquire more; therefore an universal Poetic Genius exists.
Man by his reasoning power can only compare & judge of what he has already perciev’d.
Man’s desires are limited by his perceptions: none can desire what he has not perciev’d.
If the many become the same as the few when possess’d, More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul: less than All cannot satisfy Man.
The desire of Man being Infinite, the possession is Infinite & himself Infinite.
The sun descending in the west The evening star does shine, The birds are silent in their nest And I must seek for mine,
Merrily, Merrily, to welcome in the Year. Little Lamb Here I am, Come and lick My white neck, Let me pull Your soft Wool, Let me kiss Your soft face; Merrily, Merrily, we welcome in the Year.
Infant Joy ‘I have no name: I am but two days old.’ What shall I call thee? ‘I happy am, Joy is my name.’ Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy but two days old, Sweet joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while Sweet joy befall thee.
On Another’s Sorrow Can I see another’s woe And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear And not feel my sorrow’s share?
‘O Earth, O Earth return! Arise from out the dewy grass; Night is worn And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass.
From his eyes of flame Ruby tears there came;
Then am I A happy fly If I live Or if I die.
And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet?
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?
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree, To tend her by day and by night; But my Rose turn’d away with jealousy, And her thorns were my only delight.
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;
Pity would be no more If we did not make somebody Poor; And Mercy no more could be If all were as happy as we.
I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door.’
Children of the future Age Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.
the sky-lark sings with me. O! what sweet company.
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
I know that our deceased friends are more really with us than when they were apparent to our mortal part.
Forgive me for Expressing to you my Enthusiasm which I wish all to partake of Since it is to me a Source of Immortal Joy: even in this world by it I am the companion of Angels. May you continue to be so more & more & to be more & more perswaded that every Mortal loss is an Immortal Gain. The Ruins of Time builds Mansions in Eternity.—
You, O Dear Flaxman, are a Sublime Archangel, My Friend & Companion from Eternity; in the Divine bosom in our Dwelling place. I look back into the regions of Reminiscence & behold our ancient days before this Earth appear’d in its vegetated mortality to my mortal vegetated Eyes. I see our houses of Eternity, which can never be separated, tho’ our Mortal vehicles should stand at the remotest corners of heaven from each other. Farewell, My Best Friend. Remember Me & My Wife in Love & Friendship to our Dear Mrs Flaxman, whom we ardently desire to Entertain beneath our thatched roof of rusted
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I have a thousand & ten thousand things to say to you. My heart is full of futurity. I percieve that the sore travel which has been given me these three years leads to Glory & Honour. I rejoice & I tremble: ‘I am fearfully & wonderfully made.’
but the flame soon dies again & I am left stupified and astonish’d. O that I could live as others do in a regular succession of Employment, this wish I fear is not to be accomplish’d to me—Forgive this Dirge-like lamentation over a dead horse, & now I have lamented over the dead horse let me laugh & be merry with my friends till Christmas, for as Man liveth not by bread alone, I shall live altho’ I should want bread—nothing is necessary to me but to do my Duty & to rejoice in the exceeding joy that is always poured out on my Spirit, to pray that my friends & you above the rest may be made
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To Eternity yours,
