Quote

Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.

William Cowper

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William Cowper
Age: 68 †
Born: 1731
Born: November 26
Died: 1800
Died: April 25
Hymnwriter
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Writer
Berkhamsted
Hertfordshire
Swift
Wing
Passes
Wings
Sound
Time
Silken
Dove

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For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.
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And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
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Man in society is like a flow'r, Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone His faculties expanded in full bloom Shine out, there only reach their proper use.
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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight Prayer keeps the Christian's armor bright And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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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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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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All truth is precious, if not all divine and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.
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Unmissed but by his dogs and by his groom.
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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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A man renowned for repartee will seldom scruple to make free with friendship's finest feeling, will thrust a dagger at your breast, and say he wounded you in jest, by way of balm for healing.
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Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
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