Classic Poem

Methinks this world is oddly made
And every thing amiss;
A dull complaining 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 upward cannot make it spring,
Nor bear it from the ground.

While on this tree a fruit, so small,
So disproportion'd grows,
That whosoe'er surveys this all,
This universal casual ball,
Its ill contrivance knows.

My better judgment would have hung
That fruit upon this tree,
And left this nut thus slightly strung,
'Mongst things that on the surface sprung,
And weak and feeble be.

No more the caviller could say,
No further faults descry,
For upward gazing as he lay,
An acorn, loosen'd from its stay,
Fell down upon his eye.

The wounded part with tears ran o'er,
As punish'd for the sin,
Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimsies would have work'd no more,
Nor skull have kept them in.