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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.

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
Night
Busy
Light
Health
Best
Wealth
Treasures
Rich
Wins
Winning
Toil
Heaven
Spirits
Peace
Peaceful
Spirit
Treasure

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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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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.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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