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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
Indian
Sees
Clouds
God
Whose
Wind
Untutored
Poor
Mind
Hears

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On wings of wind came flying all abroad.
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Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare And beauty draws us with a single hair.
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Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
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Atheists put on false courage and alacrity in the midst of their darkness and apprehensions, like children who, when they fear to go in the dark, will sing for fear.
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Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
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Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
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Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.
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Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.
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The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.
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Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less!Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are madeTaller or stronger than the weeds they shade?Or ask of yonder argent fields above,Why Jove's Satellites are less than Jove?
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Not always actions show the man we find who does a kindness is not therefore kind.
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So upright Quakers please both man and God.
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He knows to live who keeps the middle state, and neither leans on this side nor on that.
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Our grandsire, Adam, ere of Eve possesst, Alone, and e'en in Paradise unblest, With mournful looks the blissful scenes survey'd, And wander'd in the solitary shade. The Maker say, took pity, and bestow'd Woman, the last, the best reserv'd of God.
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Astrologers that future fates foreshow.
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And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
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Wit is the lowest form of humor.
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On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
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A perfect judge will read each word of wit with the same spirit that its author writ.
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A disputant no more cares for the truth than the sportsman for the hare.
Alexander Pope