Thomas Gray quotes:

Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

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.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

Hell is full of good intentions.

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms."

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Tis folly to be wise.

England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.

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.

As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?

The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble; it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.

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.

Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Rich with the spoils of time.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain; / Th' unfeeling for his own.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.

A fav'rite has no friend!

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.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

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.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

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?

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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?

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

In the evening, I walked alone down to the Lake by the side of Crow Park after sunset and saw the solemn coloring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hilltops, the seep serene of the asters, and the long shadows of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At distance hear the murmur of many waterfalls not audible in the day-time. Wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and silent, hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!

Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters gold.

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.

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.

One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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.

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.

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.

The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.

The insect-youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon!

The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The still small voice of gratitude.

There are certain scenes that would awe an atheist into belief without the help of any other argument.

They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Thought would destroy their paradise.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.

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

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

We frolic while 'tis May.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.

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.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.