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

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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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