The Paths Of Glory Lead But To

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife Their Sober Wishes Never Learn'd To Stray; Along The Cool Sequester'd Vale Of Life They Kept The Noiseless Tenor Of Their Way.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Vernal Shower,/ The Bee's Collected Treasure Sweet,/ Sweet Music's Melting Fall, But Sweeter Yet/ The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

For Who, To Dumb Forgetfulness A Prey, This Pleasing Anxious Being E'er Resign'd, Left The Warm Precincts Of The Cheerful Day, Nor Cast One Longing Ling'ring Look Behind?

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.