Life & Wisdom Quote by William Alexander

Alexander’s couplet runs on a sly reversal: depth doesn’t announce itself. “Din” is the noise of shallow spectacle - the kind of clamor that proves activity but not substance. By reaching for an almost physical image (a river that should roar, yet doesn’t), he makes quiet feel less like absence and more like pressure held under control. It’s an argument for inwardness, but not a cozy one.

The second line sharpens the mood. “Silent soule” isn’t serene; it “abound[s] in care.” Care here carries the older weight of anxiety, vigilance, responsibility. The subtext is that restraint can be a symptom, not a virtue: the people who speak least may be carrying the most - grief, duty, political caution, moral calculation. Alexander, writing in an era that prized decorum and distrusted excessive display, taps into a courtly logic where survival often depended on measured speech. In that world, silence reads as intelligence, but also as self-protection.

What makes the lines work is their double edge. They can flatter the reserved listener (“your quiet proves depth”), yet they also diagnose the cost of that pose (“your quiet is worry”). The rhyme tightens the thought into something proverbial, almost comforting, while the imagery undermines comfort: a deep river isn’t harmless; it’s powerful, and it can pull you under. Alexander gives us a social truth dressed as nature writing: the loudest person in the room may be the least consequential, and the quietest may be fighting currents you can’t see.