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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.

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
Harmony
Cuckoos
Spring
Attic
Attics
Pours
Responsive
Note
Throat
Untaught
Notes
Cuckoo

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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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