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
Eye
Flying
Stare
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

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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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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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
Thomas Gray