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

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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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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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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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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.
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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