In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine, And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire; The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire; These ears, alas! for other notes repine, A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain; I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more because I weep in vain.
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Thomas Gray
Томас Грей (англ. Thomas Gray, 26 декабря 1716, Корнхилл — 30 июля 1771, Кембридж) — английский поэт-сентименталист XVIII века, предшественник р…
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