Quote

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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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Steps
Spot
Column
Giving
Compared
Statue
Different
Education
Spots
Columns
Artificer
Thing
Call
Operations
Statues
Lustre
Every
Upon
Forth
Marble
Quarry
Another
Shape
Square
Animate
Beautiful
Degrees
Veins
Vein
Give
Shapes
Squares
Gloss
May

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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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 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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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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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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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