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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
More quotes by Thomas Gray
Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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.
Thomas Gray
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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.
Thomas Gray
We frolic while 'tis May.
Thomas Gray
Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
Thomas Gray
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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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