Quotes from Thomas Gray

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.

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

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

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

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.

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

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

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 paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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.

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?

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

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

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

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

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

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.

Since sorrow never comes too late And happiness too swiftly flies.

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

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

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.

Now fades the glimmering 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.