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

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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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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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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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