Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy? Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?
Since the French Revolution Englishmen are all intermeasurable one by another, certainly a happy state of agreement to which I forone do not agree.
The vision of Christ that thou dost see Is my vision's greatest enemy.
Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
The mocker of Art is the mocker of Jesus.
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?
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
God and His Priest and King,...make up a heaven of our misery.
How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?
The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks.
For everything exists and not one sigh nor smile nor tear, one hair nor particle of dust, not one can pass away.
The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.
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? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou build thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
A skylark wounded in the wing, / A cherubim does cease to sing.
When a Man has Married a WifeHe finds out whetherHer Knees & elbows are onlyglued together.
In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
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!
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')
Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go; I turn my back to the east, From whence comforts have increased; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Imitation is criticism.
Works of Art can only be produc'd in Perfection where the Man is either in Affluence or is Above the Care of it.
Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
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