The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
A favorite has no friend!
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, and all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, await alike the inevitable hour; the path of glory leads but to the grave.
Since sorrow never comes too late And happiness too swiftly flies.
Far from the madding crowd
Alas, regardless of their doom,
the little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bee’s collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music’s melting full, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of gratitude.
Hard unkindness mocks the tear it forced to flow.
Where ignorance is bliss, ‘Tis folly to be wise.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.
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.
Wondering Whom to Read Next?
- Richard Crashaw British Poet
- Richard Eyre British Director
- George Sewell English Physician, Poet
- Arthur Henry Hallam English Essayist, Poet
- Ford Madox Ford English Novelist, Poet, Critic
- Robert Ranke Graves British Writer
- Al Alvarez English Critic, Poet, Novelist
- Leigh Hunt British Author
- Matthew Arnold English Poet, Critic
- Michael Drayton English Poet