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

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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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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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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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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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