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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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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Gave
Awaits
Lead
Boast
Glory
Paths
Wealth
Alike
Path
Grave
Beauty
Graves
Heraldry
Hours
Inevitable
Pow
Hour
Pomp

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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.
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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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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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.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray
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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.
Thomas Gray
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Thomas Gray
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Thomas Gray
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Thomas Gray
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Thomas Gray
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Thomas Gray
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Thomas Gray
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Thomas Gray
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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.
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. 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.
Thomas Gray
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
Thomas Gray