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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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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
World
Winds
Ploughman
Weary
Homeward
Gray
Knell
Slowly
Curfew
Leaves
Tolls
Darkness
Herd
Wind
Herds
Way
Parting

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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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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?
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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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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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 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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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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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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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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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.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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