Thomas Gray (1716–1771)

IN vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And redd’ning Phoebus 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.