Maxioms by Thomas Gray
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crown not on my soul.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crown not on my soul.
Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample room and read more
Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of Hell to trace.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
. . where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.
. . where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
