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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.

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
Dear
Eyes
Eye
Light
Heart
Ruddy
Life
Visits
Drops
Warm

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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.
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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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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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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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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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