Zitate von Thomas Gray
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Thomas Gray:
Beredsamkeit: Gedanken, die atmen, und Worte, die brennen.
Informationen über Thomas Gray
Dichter, Schöpfer der "Friedhofslyrik" (England, 1716 - 1771).
Thomas Gray · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Thomas Gray wäre heute 307 Jahre, 8 Monate, 26 Tage oder 112.399 Tage alt.
Geboren am 26.12.1716 in London
Gestorben am 30.07.1771 in Cambridge
Sternzeichen: ♑ Steinbock
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Weitere 37 Zitate von Thomas Gray
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Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state.
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Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain.
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Sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies.
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Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, / The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, / The plowman homeward plods his weary way, / And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
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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.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
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Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn.
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To each his suff'rings, all are men, Condemned 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, 'Tis folly to be wise.
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To hide her cares her only art; Her pleasure, pleasures to impart.
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Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.
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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.
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Where ignorance is bliss - Tis folly to be wise.
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Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade.
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