Quote #13
Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
More from Thomas Gray
- Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade.
- Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today.
- 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…
- Grim-visaged comfortless Despair.
- I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
- 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…
- Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.
- 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selim…