Quote

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.

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
Pages
Repressed
Rich
Spoil
Eyes
Chill
Knowledge
Current
Penury
Eye
Currents
Genial
Soul
Rage
Froze
Time
Page
Spoils
Noble
Ample

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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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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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.
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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