Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

Sends salutations!!! 🌞
How are you guys, today? It has been sooo long... not really. We went to the outdoor mall yesterday. It was fun. (I had a $15 gift card for Barnes and Nobles, the best store EVER) I got two books. One was the new English/old English side by side version of Romeo and Juliet. The other was a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. Dad kind of scoffed at me when I said I had come for Shakespeare, I am not sure why...It was the same scoff he does every time I start to get serious about something. Maybe poetry is nerdy...🤔 We stopped at Build-A-Bear to get #3's bear sewn back together. Mom saw a Longhorn Build-A-Bear and her facial expression was literally my favorite part of the day. After that we went home because things were getting sour. (The kids were probably tired and hungry) I started reading the Old English version of Romeo and Juliet last night. I hadn't known how funny it was. (and how crude) I had to stop after a while because my brain was kind of getting mushy. I could have just switched to the modern version but that is not poetic at all. Therefore it was lacking my interest there.
Last week we saw Moana for the first time. Since then, the kids have watched it about five hundred times. Seriously, whoever thinks that Moana is less annoying than Frozen...you are crazy. Who was the "genius" that decided that they should play the same song multiple times throughout the movie? I want to poke them in the nose and say, "Boop." Then walk away leaving them totally confused. In my opinion, the best part of the whole film is the evil crab that tries to eat the main characters while singing about how shiny he is. I like his voice, his look, his sassy. "You can't run from me!!! Oh wait, you can. You keep surprising me!" That is possibly my favorite line. hahaha. So recently, I got my driver's license. I get to drive by myself. It is fun. I get to listen to my Latino Hits. whenever I get in the car to go somewhere though, this song gets stuck in my head and I just have to sing it.
https://youtu.be/Kgmb9pw8K3s
It is kind of funny.
Now it is Poetry Time. I do not have a new poem written yet, HOWEVER, I did get an idea last night while I was trying to sleep. I was smart enough to take my friend's advice and hop out of bed to scribble down my thoughts before I forgot them. Hopefully I can pick up where I left off and get a nice poem. For now, how about Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard? This is a good one. I really enjoy it.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

Related Poem Content Details

BY THOMAS GRAY

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 

         And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 

         And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r 

         The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 

         Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 

         Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

         The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

         Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

         How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

         The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 

         And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 

         The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

         If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 

         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

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? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 

         Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 

         Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 

         And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 

         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 

         And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 

         The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 

         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' 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 hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone 

         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 

         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 

         With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

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. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 

         Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, 

         The place of fame and elegy supply: 

And many a holy text around she strews, 

         That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

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? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

         Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

         Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 

         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

         "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 

         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 

         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 

         And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

         Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 

         Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 

         Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 

         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

"The next with dirges due in sad array 

         Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 

         Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 

       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 

       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 

       He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 

       The bosom of his Father and his God. 

I love copy and paste. I just want to thank my friend Brute Force for introducing it to me when I was like twelve. (You're the best, dude.) He is my own personal computer geek. (Okay, he actually probably just has the necessary knowledge required to effectively use a computer, but he taught me half of what I know on the matter. I am not very techy.)

Alright, it is time for breakfast. Have a nice day, people.