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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
Rage
Penury
Noble
Genial
Poverty
Froze
Soul
Repress
Chill
Gray
Current
Currents

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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
Thomas Gray