Top 98 Quotes & Sayings by Thomas Gray

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

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

'Tis folly to be wise.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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

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

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

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

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

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.

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.

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?

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

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

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

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.

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

Commerce changes entirely the fate and genius of nations, by communicating arts and opinions, circulating money, and introducing the materials of luxury; she first opens and polishes the mind, then corrupts and enervates both that and the body.

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

Thought would destroy their paradise.

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

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

A fav'rite has no friend!

The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble; it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

The still small voice of gratitude.

To each his suff'rings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.

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.

No further 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.

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

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.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

Hell is full of good intentions.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

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.

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.

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

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