Thomas Gray Quotes

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

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

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

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

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.

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

The still small voice of gratitude.

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.

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

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

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

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

Ah, tell them they are men!

A FLOWER THAT SMILES TODAY , TOMORROW DIES. ALL THAT WE WISH TO STAY, TEMPTS AND THEN FILES

Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.

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

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.

Hell is full of good intentions.

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

A fav'rite has no friend!

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

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

How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

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

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

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

'Tis folly to be wise.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

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

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

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

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

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

We frolic while 'tis May.

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

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.

The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon!

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

To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain; / Th' unfeeling for his own.

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

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

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

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

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

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

Thought would destroy their paradise.

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

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

Rich with the spoils of time.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

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

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

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

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

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

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