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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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
Sober
Contemplation
Race
Eye
Men
More quotes by Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
Thomas Gray
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?
Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
Thomas Gray
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
Thomas Gray
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
Thomas Gray
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
Thomas Gray
In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
Thomas Gray
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Thomas Gray
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Thomas Gray
Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
Thomas Gray
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Thomas Gray
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
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