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Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

Alexander Pope

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Alexander Pope
Age: 56 †
Born: 1688
Born: May 21
Died: 1744
Died: May 30
Literary Historian
Poet
Translator
the City
Pope the Poet
Alexander I Pope
Alexander
I Pope
Poor
Untutored
Mind
Hears
Indian
Sees
Clouds
God
Whose
Wind

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Some positive persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.
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Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
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Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
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Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.
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A little learning is a dangerous thing Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.
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Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd if right, I kiss'd the rod.
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The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
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But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain. The wond'ring forests soon should dance again The moving mountains hear the powerful call. And headlong streams hand listening in their fall!
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Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
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Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
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Let fortune do her worst, whatever she makes us lose, so long as she never makes us lose our honesty and our independence.
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When to mischief mortals bend their will, how soon they find it instruments of ill.
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The difference is as great between The optics seeing as the objects seen. All manners take a tincture from our own Or come discolor'd through out passions shown Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
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A pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was every bough.
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Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.
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With too much quickness ever to be taught With too much thinking to have common thought.
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Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurled: / The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires.
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As some to Church repair, not for the doctrine, but the music there.
Alexander Pope