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

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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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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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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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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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 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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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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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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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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