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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
Lead
Boast
Glory
Paths
Wealth
Alike
Path
Grave
Beauty
Graves
Heraldry
Hours
Inevitable
Pow
Hour
Pomp
Gave
Awaits

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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
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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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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Thomas Gray
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Thomas Gray
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
Thomas Gray