Embraces are comminglings from the head even to the feet, And not a pompous high priest entering by a secret place.
William BlakeI wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. 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. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. 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.
William BlakeSome will say, Is not God alone the Prolific? I answer, God only Acts & Is, in existing beings or Men.
William BlakeWhy stand we here trembling around, calling on God for help, and not ourselves, in whom God dwells?
William Blake