On the Death of Richard West By Thomas Gray

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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