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

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How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
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He knows to live who keeps the middle state, and neither leans on this side nor on that.
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In this commonplace world every one is said to be romantic who either admires a fine thing or does one.
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It is sure the hardest science to forget!
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I am his Highness' dog at Kew Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
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Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.
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With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.
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Tis use alone that sanctifies expense And splendor borrow all her rays from sense.
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Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man A mighty maze! but not without a plan.
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Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.
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And more than echoes talk along the walls.
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Truth shines the brighter, clad in verse.
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Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
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Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.
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Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach.
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Order is Heaven's first law and this confessed, some are, and must be, greater than the rest, more rich, more wise but who infers from hence that such are happier, shocks all common sense. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing bliss is the same in subject or in king.
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What is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known, To see all others' faults, and feel our own.
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Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
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Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.
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The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
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