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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.

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
Inevitable
Pow
Hours
Hour
Pomp
Gave
Awaits
Lead
Boast
Glory
Paths
Alike
Wealth
Grave
Path
Graves
Heraldry
Beauty

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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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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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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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