Quote

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.

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
Happiness
Bliss
Gales
Happy
Hills
Stray
Pain
Beloved
Bestow
Feel
Vain
Gale
Feels
Stranger
Momentary
Blow
Pleasing
Childhood
Careless
Fields
Shade

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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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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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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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