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Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.

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
Steal
Devotion
Stealing
Shall
Heaven
Thought
Self

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Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these.
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Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return.
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What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize.
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See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep, And all the western world believe and sleep.
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Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.
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The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.
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True friendship's laws are by this rule express'd, Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.
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But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.
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If it be the chief point of friendship to comply with a friends motions and inclinations, he possesses this in a eminent degree he lies down when I sit, and walks when I walk, which is more than many good friends can pretend to do.
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Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
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To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.
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Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, But vindicate the ways of God to man.
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On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.
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Those oft are stratagems which errors seem Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
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Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
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In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend.
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Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
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The proper study of Mankind is Man.
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What is fame? a fancied life in others' breath.
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Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide,Or gave his father grief but when he died.
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