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

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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the 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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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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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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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, 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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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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.
Thomas Gray