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Selected Poems
This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.
86 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1878
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About the author
Thomas Gray
945 books92 followersThomas Gray was an English poet, letter-writer, classical scholar and professor at Cambridge University.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
March 21, 2019
Once revered as one of the greatest poets in the English Language, Thomas Gray is sadly often neglected by modern readers. However, travel back in time perhaps eighty or so years, and Thomas Gray would have been a household name. He was often set for memorization - particularly his best-known work, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.
He published little in his lifetime - only thirteen poems, but it was enough that he was offered the post of poet laureate. Of course, he declined, uncomfortable with the idea of his deeply personal poetry being shared so widely - not on his own terms, but by a constant calendar of obligations.
His poems present a deep sadness. There is little in them which is uplifting, except perhaps in the same way that looking into the vastness of a foreign galaxy is uplifting - in the sense, that one can find comfort in recognizing how insignificant one's self really is.
I certainly believe that Thomas Gray saw himself in this way - as just a small speck of human life caught up in the vastness of the world. Despite his gigantic reputation in his lifetime, he shows a constant preoccupation with the brevity of his own life, and perhaps of his reputation too. Thomas Gray, like everyone, knew that he was destined to die, but he looked beyond this. He was realistic about his stature and aware that he would be read for many years to come, but looked also to the moment when his words too would become irrelevant, and not only his body, but his books as well would be nothing more than old dust. He is intimately connected with the brevity not only of human life, but of humanity.
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,
In fortune's varying colours dressed:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
(from Ode on the Spring)
Aside from the preoccupation with mortality, Thomas Gray dwells a great deal on unrealized potential. He laments that the poor must live without education, unable, in many cases, to realize their highest selves.
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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.
(from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard)
Critics of Thomas Gray (most notably William Wordworth) accuse Thomas Gray of being too calculated. Certainly, Gray's poetry is dense, and sometimes challenging, but within that it manages a huge density of expression, coupled with a kind of elegance that only a great many hours of labor could produce. It is never spontaneous, and it never seems so, but it is complex, often challenging, and always worthwhile.
He published little in his lifetime - only thirteen poems, but it was enough that he was offered the post of poet laureate. Of course, he declined, uncomfortable with the idea of his deeply personal poetry being shared so widely - not on his own terms, but by a constant calendar of obligations.
His poems present a deep sadness. There is little in them which is uplifting, except perhaps in the same way that looking into the vastness of a foreign galaxy is uplifting - in the sense, that one can find comfort in recognizing how insignificant one's self really is.
I certainly believe that Thomas Gray saw himself in this way - as just a small speck of human life caught up in the vastness of the world. Despite his gigantic reputation in his lifetime, he shows a constant preoccupation with the brevity of his own life, and perhaps of his reputation too. Thomas Gray, like everyone, knew that he was destined to die, but he looked beyond this. He was realistic about his stature and aware that he would be read for many years to come, but looked also to the moment when his words too would become irrelevant, and not only his body, but his books as well would be nothing more than old dust. He is intimately connected with the brevity not only of human life, but of humanity.
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,
In fortune's varying colours dressed:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
(from Ode on the Spring)
Aside from the preoccupation with mortality, Thomas Gray dwells a great deal on unrealized potential. He laments that the poor must live without education, unable, in many cases, to realize their highest selves.
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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.
(from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard)
Critics of Thomas Gray (most notably William Wordworth) accuse Thomas Gray of being too calculated. Certainly, Gray's poetry is dense, and sometimes challenging, but within that it manages a huge density of expression, coupled with a kind of elegance that only a great many hours of labor could produce. It is never spontaneous, and it never seems so, but it is complex, often challenging, and always worthwhile.
April 28, 2024
“Ah, happy hills, ah, pleading shade,
Ah, fields belov’d in vain,
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!”
“No more; where ignorance is bliss, / ‘Tis folly to be wise.”
“I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, / And weep the more because I weep in vain.”
“Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, / Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?”
From the introduction in my textbook: “In temperament, [Gray] described himself as melancholic and others described him as socially withdrawn.” A kindred spirit!
Ah, fields belov’d in vain,
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!”
“No more; where ignorance is bliss, / ‘Tis folly to be wise.”
“I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, / And weep the more because I weep in vain.”
“Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, / Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?”
From the introduction in my textbook: “In temperament, [Gray] described himself as melancholic and others described him as socially withdrawn.” A kindred spirit!
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February 11, 2023I struggle to review poetry but I will say that through reading this collection of Gray's work I stumbled upon a new favourite poem. "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes" may seem a little depressing but I found the tone to be light-hearted and somehow rather charming!
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews