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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

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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
World
Sweet
Memories
Hours
Enjoy
Aching
Left
Void
Stills
Fill
Still
Peaceful
Never
Memory

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Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
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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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Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.
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Knowledge is proud that it knows so much wisdom is humble that it knows no more.
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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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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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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If hindrances obstruct the way, Thy magnanimity display. And let thy strength be seen: But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
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Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired.
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He that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it has a mind That hungers, and supplies it and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business.
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Greece, sound, thy Homer's, Rome thy Virgil's name, But England's Milton equals both in fame.
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What we admire we praise and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.
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Come, evening, once again, season of peace Return, sweet evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step, slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
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Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.
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