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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.

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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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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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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