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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537922" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Task: Book VI, The Winter Walk at Noon (excerpts)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus heav'nward all things tend. For all were once <br> Perfect, and all must be at length restor'd.<br> So God has greatly purpos'd; who would else<br> In his dishonour'd works himself endure<br> Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress.<br> Haste then, and wheel away a shatter'd world,<br> Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see<br> (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)<br> A world that does not dread and hate his laws,<br> And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair<br> The creature is that God pronounces good,<br> How pleasant in itself what pleases him.<br> Here ev'ry drop of honey hides a sting;<br> Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow'rs,<br> And ev'n the joy, that haply some poor heart<br> Derives from heav'n, pure as the fountain is,<br> Is sully'd in the stream; taking a taint<br> From touch of human lips, at best impure.<br> Oh for a world in principle as chaste<br> As this is gross and selfish! over which<br> Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,<br> That govern all things here, should'ring aside<br> The meek and modest truth, and forcing her<br> To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife<br> In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men;<br> Where violence shall never lift the sword,<br> Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong,<br> Leaving the poor no remedy but tears;<br> Where he that fills an office shall esteem<br> The occasion it presents of doing good<br> More than the perquisite; where law shall speak<br> Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts,<br> And equity; not jealous more to guard<br> A worthless form, than to decide aright;<br> Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,<br> Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace)<br> With lean performance ape the work of love....</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> He is the happy man, whose life ev'n now<br> Shows somewhat of that happier life to come:<br> Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state,<br> Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose,<br> Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit<br> Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,<br> Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one<br> Content indeed to sojourn while he must<br> Below the skies, but having there his home.<br> The world o'eriooks him in her busy search<br> Of objects more illustrious in her view;<br> And occupied as earnestly as she,<br> Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.<br> She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;<br> He seeks not hers, for he has prov'd them vain.<br> He cannot skim the ground like summer birds<br> Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems<br> Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.<br> Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,<br> Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth<br> She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen,<br> And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd....</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,<br> More golden than that age of fabled gold<br> Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care<br> Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd<br> Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.<br> So glide my life away! and so at last<br> My share of duties decently fulfill'd,<br> May some disease, not tardy to perform<br> Its destin'd office, yet with gentle stroke,<br> Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,<br> Beneath a turf that I have often trod.<br> It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when call'd<br> To dress a sofa with the flow'rs of verse,<br> I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,<br> With that light task; but soon, to please her more,<br> Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,<br> Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit;<br> Rov'd far, and gather'd much: some harsh, 'tis true,<br> Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof,<br> But wholesome, well digested; grateful some<br> To palates that can taste immortal truth,<br> Insipid else, and sure to be despis'd.<br> But all is in his hand whose praise I seek.<br> In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,<br> If he regard not, though divine the theme.<br> 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime<br> And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,<br> To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart;<br> Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,<br> Whose approbation--prosper ev'n mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Cowper">William Cowper</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537922" data-title="The Task: Book VI, The Winter Walk at Noon (excerpts) de William Cowper" data-description="Thus heav'nward all things tend. For all were once 
 Perfect, and all must be at length restor'd.
 So God has greatly purpos'd; who would else
 In his dishonour'd works himself endure
 Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress.
 Haste then, and wh..."></div>
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