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

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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.
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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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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
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And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast) / The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
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This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.
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A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.
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All truth is precious, if not all divine and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
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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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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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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
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...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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Forced from home, and all its pleasures, afric coast I left forlorn to increase a stranger's treasures, o the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, paid my price in paltry gold but, though theirs they have enroll'd me, minds are never to be sold.
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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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All we behold is miracle.
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The mind, relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort, Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.
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