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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

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
Children
Beyond
Parental
Sense
Doom
Care
Alas
Littles
Parenting
Today
Victims
Little
Regardless
Come
Gray
Play
Victim
Ills

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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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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. 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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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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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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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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