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Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

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
Like
Fancy
Clock
Fingers
Running
Stills
Circuit
Home
Circuits
Still
Finger
Great
Runs

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The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again, pronounce a text, Cry hem and reading what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
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Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought, attain not to the dignity of thought.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
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War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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Misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.
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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.
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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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But many a crime deemed innocent on earth Is registered in Heaven and these no doubt Have each their record, with a curse annex'd.
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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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Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
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Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.
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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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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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Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd, To furnish and accommodate a world, To give the Pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one.
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Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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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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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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