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Chill penury repress'd 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
Currents
Rage
Penury
Noble
Genial
Poverty
Froze
Soul
Repress
Chill
Gray
Current
More quotes by Thomas Gray
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Thomas Gray
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.
Thomas Gray
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Thomas Gray
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
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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