English Poet, Engraver, Painter, Visionary Mystic
English Poet, Engraver, Painter, Visionary Mystic
Truth lies within a little and certain compass, but error is immense.
What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy and in the wither'd field where the farmer ploughs for bread in vain it is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun and in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn it is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted to speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer to listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season when the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs it is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements to hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughterhouse moan; to see a God on every wind and a blessing on every blast to hear sounds of love in the thunderstorm that destroys our enemies' house; to rejoice in the blight that covers his field and the sickness that cuts off his children while our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door and our children bring fruits and flowers then the groan and the dolour are quite forgotten and the slave grinding at the mill and the captive in chains and the poor in the prison and the soldier in the field when the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead it is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity: thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.
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?
Turn away no more; why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, the watery shore, is given thee till the break of day.
What seems to be, is, to those to whom it seems to be, and is productive of the most dreadful consequences to those to whom it seems to be, even of torments, despair, eternal death.
When the sun rises, do you not see a round disc of fire somewhat like a guinea? O no, no, I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host crying Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty.
Time is the mercy of eternity; without time's swiftness which is the swiftest of all things: all were eternal torment.
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green.
What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the voices of children are heard on the green and laughing is heard on the hill, my heart is at rest within my breast and everything else is still.
To cast aside from poetry, all that is not inspiration.
Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare sieze the fire? And what shoulder, and what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
What, it will be questioned, when the sun rises, do you not see a round disc of fire somewhat like a guinea? O no, no, I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host crying holy, holy, holy is the lord God almighty.
When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head!
To Chloe's breast young Cupid slily stole, but he crept in at Myra's pocket-hole.
Use what talents you possess; The woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best.
Whate'er is born of mortal birth must be consumed with the earth.
Where any view of money exists, art cannot be carried on.
To create a little flower is the labor of ages.
Wandering in many a coral grove, fair nine, forsaking poetry!
When a man has married a wife he finds out whether her knees and elbows are only glued together.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves the feet of angels bright; unseen they pour blessing, and joy without ceasing, on each bud and blossom, and each sleeping bosom.
To generalize is to be an idiot. To particularize is the alone distinction of merit. General knowledges are those knowledges that idiots possess.
Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude. We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere than in want of money, for that is the miser's passion, not the thief's.