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
Thing
Call
Spots
Columns
Artificer
Every
Upon
Operations
Statues
Lustre
Another
Forth
Marble
Quarry
Beautiful
Shape
Square
Animate
Give
Degrees
Veins
Vein
May
Shapes
Squares
Gloss
Giving
Steps
Spot
Column
Different
Education
Compared
Statue

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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
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