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

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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!
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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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This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to - the last retreat.
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How shall I speak thee, or thy power address Thou God of our idolatry, the Press. . . . . Like Eden's dead probationary tree, Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.
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The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.
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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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His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
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Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!
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An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
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Grief is itself a medicine.
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Absence of proof is not proof of absence.
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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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God never meant that man should scale the Heavens By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
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In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.
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Though peace be made, yet it's interest that keep peace.
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Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine And sensibilities so fine! Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Forever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out.
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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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