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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

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
Cadence
Glance
Glances
Beating
Ballet
Notes
Feet
Brisk
Many
Twinkling

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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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