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

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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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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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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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