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My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.

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
Earth
Soul
Every
Outrage
Report
Reports
Filled
Sick
Wrong

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What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
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...So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
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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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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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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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A glory gilds the sacred page, Majestic like the sun, It gives a light to every age, It gives, but borrows none.
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The only amaranthine flower on earth is virtue the only lasting treasure, truth.
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We sacrifice to dress till household joys and comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, and keeps our larder lean.
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Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
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He that has seen both sides of fifty has lived to little purpose if he has no other views of the world than he had when he was much younger.
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To see the Law by Christ fulfilled, And hear His pardoning voice Changes a slave into a child, And duty into choice.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
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No, Freedom has a thousand charms to show That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
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Go, mark the matchless working of the power That shuts within the seed the future flower Bids these in elegance of form excel. In color these, and those delight the smell Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes.
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How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.
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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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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth. While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
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