Quote

The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.

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
Shall
Worst
Lying
Safely
Night
Troubles
Care
Cares
Today
Seldom
May
Tomorrow
Done
Trouble

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The bird that flutters least is longest on the wing.
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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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When from soft love proceeds the deep distress, ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow?
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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.
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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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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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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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How happy it is to believe, with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions are heard even while we are making them and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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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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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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Even in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.
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In indolent vacuity of thought.
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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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