Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Where ignorance is bliss Tis folly to be wise.
As to posterity I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea The ploughman homeward plods his weary way And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.