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

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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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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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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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