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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

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
Truth
Drest
Severe
Fairy
Fiction

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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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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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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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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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