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Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?

George Crabbe

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George Crabbe
Age: 79 †
Born: 1754
Born: December 24
Died: 1834
Died: February 3
Entomologist
Medicine
Poet
Surgeon
Writer
Aldeburgh
Suffolk
Feel
Shed
Myrtle
Feels
Poets
Soothe
Ruins
Winding
Round
Pine
Rounds
Barren
Bread
Flattery
Poet
Rhyme
Poetry
Ruin

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Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind! Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring But Man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
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Lawyers Are: By law's dark by-ways he has stored his mind with wicked knowledge on how to cheat mankind.
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See Time has touched me gently in his race, And left no odious furrows in my face.
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Circles in water as they wider flow The less conspicuous in their progress grow, And when at last they trench upon the shore, Distinction ceases and they're view'd no more.
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We cannot heal the throbbing heart till we discern the wounds within.
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In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
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Deceivers are the most dangerous members of society. They trifle with the best affections of our nature, and violate the most sacred obligations.
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In this wild world the fondest and the best Are the most tried, most troubled and distress'd.
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Learning is better worth than houses or land.
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Ability comprehends the power of doing in general, without specifying the quality or degree.
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With awe, around these silent walks I tread These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
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Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd.
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Tis easiest dealing with the firmest mind-- More just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind.
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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
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Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil! Who from destruction save us who from spoil Protect the sons of peace, who traffic or who toil Would I could duly praise you, that each deed Your foe's might honor, and your friends might read.
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I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms, For him that gazes or for him that farms.
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But jest apart--what virtue canst thou trace In that broad trim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent--what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony?
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Life's bloomy flush was lost.
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Books cannot always please, however good Minds are not ever craving for their food.
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Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air.
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