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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
Drops
Warm
Dear
Eyes
Eye
Light
Heart
Ruddy
Life
Visits

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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.
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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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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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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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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.
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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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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 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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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