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Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!

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
Silver
Shining
Verdure
Winter
Groves
Beauty
Grove
Lost
Withered
Frost
Behold
Shine

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Be silent always when you doubt your sense.
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Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate and rot.
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Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
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One science only will one genius fit so vast is art, so narrow human wit.
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The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
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Some positive persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.
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To observations which ourselves we make, we grow more partial for th' observer's sake.
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A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
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In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes At every word a reputation dies.
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All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.
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The heart resolves this matter in a trice, Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.
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Wit is the lowest form of humor.
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A king may be a tool, a thing of straw but if he serves to frighten our enemies, and secure our property, it is well enough a scarecrow is a thing of straw, but it protects the corn.
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It is sure the hardest science to forget!
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Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
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I was not born for courts and great affairs, but I pay my debts, believe and say my prayers.
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Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
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You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
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Never find fault with the absent.
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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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