William Cowper Quotes
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
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When I thinkof my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
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We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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I am out of humanity's reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet; now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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God never meant that man should scale the Heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
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Go, mark the matchless working of the power That shuts within the seed the future flower; Bids these in elegance of form excel. In color these, and those delight the smell; Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.