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

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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
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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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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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?
Thomas Gray