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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.

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
Sweet
Shower
Small
Melting
Voice
Showers
Fall
Bees
Stills
Treasure
Still
Breath
Vernal
Music
Breaths
Sweeter
Gratitude
Collected

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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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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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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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