Quote

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.

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
Friend
Grant
Stills
Retreat
Still
Grants
May
Passings
Loneliness
Solitude
Passing
Sweet
Whisper

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Where thou art gone, adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
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Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, An Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'ed to his taste, inviting him abroad - Can he want occupation who has these?
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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There is a mixture of evil in everything we do indulgence encourages us to encroach, while we Crabbe exercise the rights of children, we become childish.
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Remorse begets reform.
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When all within is peace How nature seems to smile Delights that never cease The live-long day beguile
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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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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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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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Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
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Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
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The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.
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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume And we are weeds without it.
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Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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Nature is a good name for an effect whose cause is God.
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As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, And hides the ruin that it feeds upon, So sophistry, cleaves close to, and protects Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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