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

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Dear
Eyes
Eye
Light
Heart
Ruddy
Life
Visits
Drops
Warm

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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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.
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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.
Thomas Gray
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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.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Thomas Gray
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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
Thomas Gray
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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
Thomas Gray
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Thomas Gray
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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.
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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?
Thomas Gray