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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

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
Sight
Aching
Glory
Unborn
Vision
Visions
Age
Spare
Soul
Spares
Ages
Crowd
Crowds

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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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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.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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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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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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