Thomas Gray

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the read more

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are open paradise.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

To each his suff'rings; all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
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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 they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise.

To warm their little loves the birds complain.

To warm their little loves the birds complain.

The still small voice of gratitude.

The still small voice of gratitude.