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I seem forsaken and alone, / I hear the lion roar / And every door is shut but one, / And that is Mercy's door.
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
Hear
Lion
Alone
Lions
Seems
Shut
Every
Loneliness
Mercy
Door
Doors
Forsaken
Seem
Roar
More quotes by William Cowper
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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Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.
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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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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
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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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O, popular applause! what heart of man is proof against thy sweet, seducing charms?
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.
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There is mercy in every place. And mercy, encouraging thought gives even affliction a grace and reconciles man to his lot.
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A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.
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In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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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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E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream thy flowing wounds supply, redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
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Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.
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No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides.
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Grief is itself a medicine.
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Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
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