Quote

Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads.

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
Power
Forms
Dewy
Giving
Field
Mead
Every
Dancing
Spreads
Flower
Scent
Fields
Opens
Gives
Fresh
Unwearied
Nature
Leads
Verdure
Form
Spread
Exerting

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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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How various his employments whom the world Calls idle and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too!
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
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I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense of his original.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
William Cowper
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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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Religion Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew, None as invincible as they.
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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
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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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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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The beggarly last doit.
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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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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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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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