The still small voice is wanted.
WILLIAM COWPERSome people are more nice than wise.
More William Cowper Quotes
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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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God made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money,
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When nations are to perish in their sins, ’tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.
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And natural in gesture; much impress’d Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.
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What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill.
WILLIAM COWPER -
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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Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.
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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
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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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Still ending, and beginning still.
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O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
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We are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger.
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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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Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
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Tea – the cups that cheer but not inebriate.
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Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer; Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.
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Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
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The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
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Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth.
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Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer keeps the Christian’s armor bright; And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.
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No traveler e’er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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I am out of humanity’s reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.
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All we behold is miracle.
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Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
WILLIAM COWPER