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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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
Cries
Ashes
Cry
Fire
Voice
Wonted
Nature
Tomb
Live
Tombs
Fires

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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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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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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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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
Thomas Gray
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
Thomas Gray
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Thomas Gray