Thomas Gray

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
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Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note.

The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
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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.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune,
He had not the method of making a fortune.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune,
He had not the method of making a fortune.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.