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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.

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
Dark
Serene
Many
Caves
Sweetness
Rays
Bear
Bears
Unfathomed
Ocean
Gems
Full
Purest

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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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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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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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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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 Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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