We now know him as a visionary poet and one of the most remarkable minds of the eighteenth century. But in his day, William Blake lived in near-obscurity. His first and only attempt to make a public name for himself came in 1809, when he mounted an exhibition of his works in the flat above his brother’s London shop. It was a massive failure. Barely anyone attended, and its only review was so abusive and insulting that it sent Blake into a depression of several years.

Michael Phillips’s William Blake: Apprentice and Master exhibition is a lovely correction – a re-writing of the 1809 flop. Three spacious rooms in the Ashmolean are currently inhabited by a vibrant menagerie of prints, brilliantly coloured paintings, and enchanting ephemera – many of which are borrowed from Cambridge’s own Fitzwilliam Museum – as well as a reconstruction of Blake’s printing studio.

After steeping myself in this bewitching corner of William Blake’s rich world, I sat down. Watching all the people studying his work, I felt a sort of triumph for him, 200 years in the making.

It was amazing to see the different types of people that Blake attracts. An older man, unapologetically sporting vibrant pink corduroy trousers, halted his cane in front of Nebuchadnezzar, and in him I saw a flash of Blake’s impetuous spirit.

And then there were two boys who reminded me so of a young William and his brother, Robert, as they threaded their way in between their parents’ legs, clutching little notebooks and pencils. I watched as various paintings arrested them, causing them to feverishly bend to copy the figures into their notebooks, or cry “Oh look at the different colours!” or ask if their father could see what was written on a scroll.

They truly seemed to be the essence of Innocence that Blake clung to in his writings, finding insight where the rest of us, fallen into Experience, could not. I melted at their sweetness – pushing their glasses up their noses and concentrating on Blake’s prints with the air of budding art historians – and I could swear that Blake twinkled at them through the works.

Indeed, it was hard to shake the feeling that Blake was present in these hallowed rooms. Especially in the last: a tribute to his final years and his legacy. Reverence hung in this final, dimly-lit room. On the far side were works by Blake and his followers, arranged above a knee-height dais. Many visitors perched there – as if we were all kneeling at some sort of altar.

And perhaps the most striking piece was a plaster cast of Blake’s head, residing in an unassuming, yet holy recess of the room. The bust was both godly and profane; a relic, and a man. Separated from us only by a thin layer of glass were his furrowed brow, his wrinkles, his hairline. Visitors approached him with a marked hesitancy. We peered from afar to read the label and moved away without turning our backs, as if to keep a respectful distance. Powerfully illuminated and captivating, this bodiless head seemed suspended among us, a meditative visitor to his own exhibition. And in this dusty light, we held our breath – hoping, waiting for his closed eyes to open.