Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Since sorrow never comes too late And happiness too swiftly flies.
And to hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast, and calm repose
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.
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