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Thomas Gray
Quote #12
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voic…
Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair.
Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air.
To each his suff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain; Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should…
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