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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
Eyes
Eye
Light
Heart
Ruddy
Life
Visits
Drops
Warm
Dear

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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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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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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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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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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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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray