Thomas Gray Quotes (84 Quotes)

From trial 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.

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.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

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

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

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

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

Comus and his midnight crew.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

To hide her cares her only art Her pleasure, pleasures to impart.

And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

The still small voice of gratitude.

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.

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

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

A fav'rite has no friend.

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.

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.

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

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

The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastised by sabler tints of woe.

The wording of the contract is no different than the original offer. There's no protection on our jobs whatsoever. There's no guarantee that I'll be going back to work.

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.

Mark and I get pretty competitive sometimes. But I like to just get the ball to my receivers and let them make the plays. I trust them.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting full, but sweeter yet. The still small voice of gratitude.

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

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

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree Another came nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

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

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.

The social smile, the sympathetic tear.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.

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.

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

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

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

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

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.

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

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

'Tis folly to be wise.

And waste their sweetness on the desert air.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace.