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Thought would destroy their paradise.

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
Thought
Would
Thinking
Paradise
Destroy
Destruction

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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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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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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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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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