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

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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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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 brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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.
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