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The Atheist And The Acorn

 Methinks this World is oddly made, 
And ev'ry thing's amiss, 
A dull presuming Atheist said, 
As stretch'd he lay beneath a Shade; 
And instanced in this: 

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, 
A Pumpkin, large and round, 
Is held but by a little String, 
Which upwards cannot make it spring, 
Or bear it from the Ground.
Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small, So disproportion'd, grows; That, who with Sence surveys this All, This universal Casual Ball, Its ill Contrivance knows.
My better Judgment wou'd have hung That Weight upon a Tree, And left this Mast, thus slightly strung, 'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung, And small and feeble be.
No more the Caviller cou'd say, Nor farther Faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay, Fell down upon his Eye.
Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er, As punish'd for the Sin: Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore, Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more, Nor Scull had kept them in.

by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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