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There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart he does not feel for man.

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
Men
Obdurate
Flesh
Doe
Feel
Feels
Heart

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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
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They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
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I am out of humanity's reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own.
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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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He that negotiates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech.
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A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.
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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 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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We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
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I have a kitten,the drollest of all creatures that ever wore a cat's skin.
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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.
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Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds A stream of liberal and heroic deeds The swell of pity, not to be confined Within the scanty limits of the mind.
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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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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.
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The fall of waters and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant berds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast, and her chief favorites share.
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