On The Death Of Richard West

Thomas Gray

1     In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,
2         And reddening Phbus lifts his golden fire;
3     The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
4         Or cheerful fields resume their green attire;
5     These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
6         A different object do these eyes require;
7     My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
8         And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
9     Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
10       And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
11   The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
12       To warm their little loves the birds complain;
13   I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
14       And weep the more because I weep in vain.

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