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

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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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 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.
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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 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.
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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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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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