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

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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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?
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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.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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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.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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