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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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
Fire
Voice
Wonted
Nature
Tomb
Live
Tombs
Fires
Cries
Ashes
Cry

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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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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.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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