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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
Paradise
Destroy
Destruction
Thought
Would
Thinking

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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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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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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Thomas Gray
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From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
Thomas Gray