Quote

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.

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
Rising
Helm
Fairs
Proudly
Prow
Fair
Blows
Zephyr
Blow
Laughs
Trim
Youth
Vessel
Morn
Laughing
Realm
Azure
Goes
Realms
Gilded
Pleasure
Soft
Gallant

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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 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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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 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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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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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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