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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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 curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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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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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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