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

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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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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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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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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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