Quote

Philologists, who chase A painting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's Ark.

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
Start
Noah
Space
Syllables
Home
Hunt
Time
Hunts
Gaul
Chase
Philology
Greece
Linguists
Painting
Syllable
Dark
Ark

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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.
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Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
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Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers will be sure to hear The trumpet of contention.
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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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Still ending, and beginning still.
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Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
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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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Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
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For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not?
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Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies... To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
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In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
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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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But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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