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

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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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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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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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 paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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