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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

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
Gay
Brow
Clouds
Brows
Fruit
Swept
Summer
Fruits
Bears
Cloud
Spring
Autumn
Flower
Desert
Way
Flowers
Bough

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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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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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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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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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 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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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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