Quote

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.

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
Along
Stray
Learning
Strife
Learn
Sober
Sequester
Wish
Wishes
Noiseless
Way
Crowd
Vale
Never
Crowds
Tenor
Life
Kept
Tenors
Cool
Ignoble

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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.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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To each his suff'rings all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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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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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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