Quote

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.

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
Watches
Birds
Aged
Watch
Drawn
Skies
Eyes
Staring
Peasants
Eye
Flying
Stare
Words
Thou
Aviation
Fleets
Come
Sky
Amazed
Shalt
Long
Bird
Lift
Thine
Time
Battle
Lifts
Wondrous

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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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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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