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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.

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
Heart
Wandering
Gray
Prize
Wander
Hearts
Gold
Heedless
Eyes
Tempts
Eye
Lawful

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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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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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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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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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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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