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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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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Vision
Visions
Age
Spare
Soul
Spares
Ages
Crowd
Crowds
Sight
Aching
Glory
Unborn

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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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?
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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