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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

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
Tyrant
Grief
Pleasing
Move
Measures
Pain
Breast
Moving
Tyrants
Pale
Breasts
Throbbing
Horror

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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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.
Thomas Gray
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Thomas Gray
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray
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The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray
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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?
Thomas Gray
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
Thomas Gray
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Thomas Gray
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
Thomas Gray
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Thomas Gray