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

More quotes by 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.
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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.
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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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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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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?
Thomas Gray