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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Philanthropic
Philanthropy
Smiling
Plenty
Charity
Land
Scatter

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
Thomas Gray
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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Thomas Gray
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Thomas Gray