FastSaying
Think, oh, grateful think! How good the God of Harvest is to you; Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields, While those unhappy partners of you kind Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven, And ask their humble dole.
James Thomson (1)
Harvest
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While I deduce, From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of spring.
— James Thomson (1)
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Cruel as death, and hungry at the grave.
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'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation.
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Expectation
Base envy withers at another's joy, And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
— James Thomson (1)
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Their only labour was to kill the time; And labour dire it is, and weary woe, They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme, Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering steps and slow.
— James Thomson (1)
Idleness