Thomas Gray Quotes

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.

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.

Hell is full of good intentions.

There are certain scenes that would awe an atheist into belief without the help of any other argument.

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

The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.

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.

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.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

Where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

- Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

In the evening, I walked alone down to the Lake by the side of Crow Park after sunset and saw the solemn coloring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hilltops, the seep serene of the asters, and the long shadows of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At distance hear the murmur of many waterfalls not audible in the day-time. Wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and silent, hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
Awaits alike the inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

A fav'rite has no friend!

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?

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.

The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.

Along the cool sequestered vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

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.

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.

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

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.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

The generous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are, to feel, and to know myself a Man.

- Hymn to Adversity

Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.

From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

Thought would destroy their paradise.

In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

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.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.