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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

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
Poor
Simple
Disdainful
Annals
Grandeur
Simplicity
Smile
Short
Hear

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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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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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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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