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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

— Thomas Gray

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More quotes by Thomas Gray

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode (1754)

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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

The Bard (1757)

Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages that lead to nothing.

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Attribution

Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: Thomas Gray (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.