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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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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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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Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.
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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Pity! Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray And every muse attend her in her way.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides.
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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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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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Sacred interpreter of human thought, How few respect or use thee as they ought! But all shall give account of every wrong, Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price!
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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.
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What is there in the vale of lifeHalf so delightful as a wifeWhen friendship, love and peace combineTo stamp the marriage-bond divine?
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The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
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The slaves of custom and established mode, With pack-horse constancy we keep the road Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells.
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How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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