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All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.

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
Rain
Hushed
Bird
Skies
Flower
Mourn
Nature
Showers
Closed
Birds
Relent
Flowers
Drooping
Sky
Mourns

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You eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.
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At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
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Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
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Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
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The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
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The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
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Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.
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The finest minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest.
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Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
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Those oft are stratagems which errors seem Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
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And empty heads console with empty sound.
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Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are fluttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack And leave your friends and go. O never fear, lads, naught's to dread, Look not to left nor right: In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night.
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The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
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So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
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Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep.
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While I live, no rich or noble knave shall walk the world in credit to his grave.
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Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
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So perish all who do the like again.
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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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False happiness is like false money it passes for a time as well as the true, and serves some ordinary occasions but when it is brought to the touch, we find the lightness and alloy, and feel the loss.
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