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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.

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
Tolls
Leaves
Herd
Darkness
Herds
Wind
Parting
Way
Winds
Ploughman
World
Weary
Homeward
Gray
Knell
Curfew
Slowly

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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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