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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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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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From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.
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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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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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