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

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A field of glory is a field for all.
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Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
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In a sadly pleasing strain, let the warbling lute complain.
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Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.
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All looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. [and therefore the solution is to fix the jaundiced eye.]
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Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.
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But see how oft ambition's aims are cross'd, and chiefs contend 'til all the prize is lost!
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There still remains to mortify a wit The many-headed monster of the pit.
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To pardon those absurdities in ourselves which we cannot suffer in others is neither better nor worse than to be more willing to be fools ourselves than to have others so.
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But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?
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Women use lovers as they do cards they play with them a while, and when they have got all they can by them, throw them away, call for new ones, and then perhaps lose by the new all they got by the old ones.
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Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
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Sickness is a sort of early old age it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.
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Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace To spin, to weep, and cully human race.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
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Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
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O let us still the secret joy partake, To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.
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Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
Alexander Pope