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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.

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
Glow
Woe
Bliss
Tints
Hues
Hue
Brightly

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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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