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

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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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.
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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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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.
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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.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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