Monday, July 11, 2016

All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee.

Cease then Nor 'order' imperfection name
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point; 
This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, 
Heav'n bestows on thee. 
Submit--In this, or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
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.

Excerpt from An Essay on Man. Epistle I.  A poem by Alexander Pope 1734

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