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For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.

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
Light
Truth
Cranny
Wells
Whatsoever
Well
Seek
Right
Loss
Thing
Known
Every
Comes
Lost

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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
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Heaven's harmony is universal love.
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A life all turbulence and noise may seem To him that leads it wise and to be praised, But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still waters.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow.
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
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A Christian's wit is offensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth, 'Tis always active on the side of truth.
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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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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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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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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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Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
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I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
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But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
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Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.
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We bear our shades about us self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
William Cowper