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Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?

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
Love
Sing
Birds
Bird
Remove
Heats
Summer
Drop
Forsaken
Spring
Heat
Fade
Flower
Flowers
Farewell
Tree
Trees
Fades
Death
Cease
Goodbye
Left
Absence
Autumn

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To dazzle let the vain design, To raise the thought and touch the heart, be thine!
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Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
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Not to go back is somewhat to advance, and men must walk, at least, before they dance.
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Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
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The scripture in times of disputes is like an open town in times of war, which serves in differently the occasions of both parties.
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To Him no high, no low, no great, no small He fills, He bounds, connects and equals all!
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So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
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Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
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Those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
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I was not born for courts and great affairs, but I pay my debts, believe and say my prayers.
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Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurled: / The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
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If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.
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Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
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I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.
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At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
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And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man, but God?
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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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Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate and rot.
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Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.
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I am satisfied to trifle away my time, rather than let it stick by me.
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