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

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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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There is no mind so weak and powerless as not to have its inclinations, and none so guarded as to be without its prepossessions.
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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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The coward never on himself relies, But to an equal for assistance flies.
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Oh, rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.
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To show the world what long experience gains, requires not courage, though it calls for pains but at life's outset to inform mankind is a bold effort of a valiant mind.
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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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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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With awe, around these silent walks I tread These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
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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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Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends.
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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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See Time has touched me gently in his race, And left no odious furrows in my face.
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Learning is better worth than houses or land.
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Beauties, when disposed to sleep, Should from the eye of keen inspector keep: The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise, May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes, And all the homely features homelier makes.
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Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
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Oh how the passions, insolent and strong, Bear our weak minds their rapid course along Make us the madness of their will obey Then die and leave us to our griefs as prey!
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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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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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