Quote

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.

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
Sight
Floating
Torrent
Air
Sharp
Chilly
Shed
Hides
Substance
Bosoms
Slow
Gloomy
Snow
Skies
Fleecy
Clouds
Flies
Flaky
Sky
Bare
Mocks

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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
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With eye upraised his master's look to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man: The rich man's guardian and the poor man's friend, The only creature faithful to the end.
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Life's bloomy flush was lost.
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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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Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, Life's little cares and little pains refuse? Shall he not rather feel a double share Of mortal woe, when doubly arm'd to bear?
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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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Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends.
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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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The coward never on himself relies, But to an equal for assistance flies.
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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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Arrogance is the act of the great presumption that of the little.
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Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ His wife he cabined with him and his boy, And seemed that life laborious to enjoy.
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An infatuated man is not only foolish, but wild.
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Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.
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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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To the house of a friend if you're pleased to retire, You must all things admit, you must all things admire You must pay with observance the price of your treat, You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat.
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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?
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