Quote

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

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Behinds
Anxious
Ling
Behind
Cast
Precincts
Left
Rings
Resign
Look
Longing
Forgetfulness
Looks
Casts
Pleasing
Dumb
Prey
Anxiety
Cheerful
Warm
Ring

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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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