Quote

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

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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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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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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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