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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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