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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

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
Bitter
Flower
Taste
Sweet
May
Bud

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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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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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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hourThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
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Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
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Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
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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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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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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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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
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Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
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Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales But swell'd into a gust--who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore, heedless, can withstand thy power?
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All zeal for a reform, that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence.
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But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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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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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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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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