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.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

To warm their little loves the birds complain.

To warm their little loves the birds complain.

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.

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