The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
WILLIAM COWPERThe still small voice is wanted.
More William Cowper Quotes
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Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs,
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The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.
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Some people are more nice than wise.
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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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Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
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A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.
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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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Absence of occupation is not rest.
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When nations are to perish in their sins, ’tis in the Church the leprosy begins.
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God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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[My kitten’s] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.
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I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.
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Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.
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Heaven’s harmony is universal love.
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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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While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,–the art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim to quench it.
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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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There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
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Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
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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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No traveler e’er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
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The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
WILLIAM COWPER