Quote

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.

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
Branches
Oaks
Grown
Broader
Shall
Stretch
Water
Muse
Glade
Think
Beside
Beech
Thinking
Rude
Canopy
Shade
Brink
Thick
Moss

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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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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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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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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
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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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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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