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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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
Walking
Path
Elegy
Paths
Grave
Gray
Graves
Lead
Glory

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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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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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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
Thomas Gray
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
Thomas Gray
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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 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.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray