Quote

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.

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
Work
Sure
Judging
Providence
Interpreter
Every
Lord
Blind
Plain
Bud
Make
Face
Taste
Vain
Feeble
Hours
Sweet
Bitter
Hides
Purpose
Behinds
Judge
Unbelief
Faces
Behind
Fast
Unfolding
Ripen
Sense
Trust
Hour
Smiling
Scan
May
Grace
Flow
Purposes
Frowning

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Necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And luxury the accomplish'd Sofa last.
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No one was ever scolded out of their sins.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
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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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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct The language plain, and incidents well link'd Tell not as new what ev'ry body knows and, new or old, still hasten to a close.
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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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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.
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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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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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True modesty is a discerning grace And only blushes in the proper place But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear: Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd.
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Truth is the golden girdle of the globe.
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Go, mark the matchless working of the power That shuts within the seed the future flower Bids these in elegance of form excel. In color these, and those delight the smell Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound.
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