Thomas Gray

They had finished her own crown in glory, and she couldn't stay
away from the coronation.

They had finished her own crown in glory, and she couldn't stay
away from the coronation.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How read more

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

And to hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast, and calm repose.
. . . read more

And to hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast, and calm repose.
. . . .
From toil we wins his spirits light,
From busy day the peaceful night;
Rich, from the very want of wealth,
In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.

To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.