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

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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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