Quote

All flesh is grass. and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.

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
Dream
Fair
Tombs
Find
Flesh
Grandeur
Must
Wings
Fades
Men
Worship
Riches
Like
Flower
Graves
Glory
Celebrate
Wind
Grass
Ignoble
Death
Fairs
Tomb

More quotes by William Cowper

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Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.
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A fool must now and then be right, by chance
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Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.
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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth Happy who walks with him!
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Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours.
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Toil for the brave! The brave that are no more.
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How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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All affectation 'tis my perfect scorn Object of my implacable disgust.
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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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England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
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When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
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The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease, After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
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To trace in Nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine. ... The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed, To whom an atom is an ample field.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize.
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Great offices will have great talents, and God gives to every man the virtue, temper, understanding, taste, that lifts him into life, and lets him fall just in the niche he was ordained to fill.
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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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