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.— Thomas Gray
The most belligerent Thomas Gray quotes that may be undiscovered and unusual
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
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.
To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain; / Th' unfeeling for his own.
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.
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.
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.
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.
Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.
Hell is full of good intentions.
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 unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
A fav'rite has no friend!
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?
Rich with the spoils of time.
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.
Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.
The still small voice of gratitude.
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.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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.
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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.
The insect-youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon!
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.
Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
A favorite has no friend!
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
Alas, regardless of their doom,the little victims play!No sense have they of ills to come,Nor care beyond to-day.
To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.
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.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!