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

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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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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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