Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough, <br />Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow, <br />Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish'd Skin, <br />Cou'd he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen, <br />In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces, <br />Her various Fashions, and more various Faces; <br />How had it pos'd that Skill, which late assign'd <br />Just Appellations to Each several Kind! <br />A right Idea of the Sight to frame; <br />T'have guest from what New Element she came; <br />T'have hit the wav'ring Form, or giv'n this Thing a Name.<br /><br />Anne Kingsmill Finch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adam-pos-d/
