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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

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
Soul
Music
Unison
Sympathy
Sounds
Souls
Sound

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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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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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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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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.
William Cowper
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Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world to see the stir Of the Great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
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Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head
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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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God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
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No, Freedom has a thousand charms to show That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
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The beggarly last doit.
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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A noisy man is always in the right.
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Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
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An idler is a watch that wants both hands As useless if it goes as when it stands.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
William Cowper
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I am out of humanity's reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own.
William Cowper
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The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.
William Cowper