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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.

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
Race
Mortality
Eye
Sober
Ends
Contemplation
Littles
Alike
Little
Gay
Men
Began
Flutter
Life
Busy
Creep
Shall
Creeps

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Thomas Gray