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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.

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
Men
Groan
Condemn
Tender
Alike
Rings
Suffering
Pain
Another
Unfeeling

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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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