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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

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
Indigent
Lows
Proud
Littles
Little
Great

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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 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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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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.
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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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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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