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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

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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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.
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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?
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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