Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
WILLIAM COWPERSolitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
WILLIAM COWPERThis fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life’s long race.
WILLIAM COWPERTo impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.
WILLIAM COWPERThe 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,
WILLIAM COWPERKnowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection.
WILLIAM COWPER…So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
WILLIAM COWPERAbsence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
WILLIAM COWPERGod made bees, and bees made honey, God made man, and man made money,
WILLIAM COWPERThe bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
WILLIAM COWPERBut oars alone can ne’er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.
WILLIAM COWPERA fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion; a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.
WILLIAM COWPERThe still small voice is wanted.
WILLIAM COWPERA fool must now and then be right, by chance
WILLIAM COWPERMen deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.
WILLIAM COWPERAfter long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all.
WILLIAM COWPERThere is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies.
WILLIAM COWPER