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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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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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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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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor 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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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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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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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.
Thomas Gray
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Thomas Gray
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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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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
Thomas Gray
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Thomas Gray
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Thomas Gray