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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.

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
Move
Bosom
Moving
Bosoms
Desire
Cheek
Light
Bloom
Young
Purple
Love
Cheeks
Life
Rising
Warm

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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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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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