Thomas Gray

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
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Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

As to posterity, I may ask (with somebody whom I have forgot)
what has it ever done to oblige read more

As to posterity, I may ask (with somebody whom I have forgot)
what has it ever done to oblige me?

There scatter'd oft the earliest of ye Year
By Hands unseen are showers of Vi'lets found;
The read more

There scatter'd oft the earliest of ye Year
By Hands unseen are showers of Vi'lets found;
The Redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little Footsteps lightly print the ground.