Quote

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

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
Hands
Gifts
Waving
Littles
Wild
Sowing
Little
Fingers
Thumb
Great
Green
Oaks
Oats
Grow
Prospect
Acorns
Stand
Thumbs
Tempt
Hand
Agriculture
Reaper
Grows
Joyful
Nodding

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Truth needs not flowers of speech.
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Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.
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Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace To spin, to weep, and cully human race.
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One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.
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On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
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How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail!
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But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
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Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.
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There is no study that is not capable of delighting us after a little application to it.
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New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise: So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try.
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There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all the quaintness of wit.
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Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is Nature to advantage dressed, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
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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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Nature and nature's laws lay hid in the night. God said, Let Newton be! and all was light!
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When we are young, we are slavishly employed in procuring something whereby we may live comfortably when we grow old and when we are old, we perceive it is too late to live as we proposed.
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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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What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath. A thing beyond us, even before our death.
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Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.
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Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.
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The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
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