Alexander Pope

The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

All Nature is but art unknown to thee;
All chance direction, which thou canst not see;
All read more

All Nature is but art unknown to thee;
All chance direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood;
All partial evil, universal good;
And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, Whatever is is right.

The infant, on opening his eyes, ought to see his country, and to
the hour of his death never read more

The infant, on opening his eyes, ought to see his country, and to
the hour of his death never lose sight of it.
[Fr., Un enfant en ouvrant ses yeux doit voir la patrie, et
jusqu'a la mort ne voir qu'elle.]

Know then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly,
The light Militia of the lower sky.

Know then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly,
The light Militia of the lower sky.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.