Thomas Gray

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

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

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

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.

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind.

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious read more

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.