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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
Ages
Crowd
Crowds
Sight
Aching
Glory
Unborn
Vision
Visions
Age
Spare
Soul
Spares

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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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.
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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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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.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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 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.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
Thomas Gray
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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.
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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.
Thomas Gray
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Thomas Gray