Thomas Gray Quotes

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

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

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

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.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

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

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

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

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.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

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

Thought would destroy their paradise.

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

England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

We frolic while 'tis May.

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

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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

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

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

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!

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.

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

Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

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.

Where ignorance is bliss Tis folly to be wise.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

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

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

Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth to fortune and to fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.