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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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