Yet ah why should they know their fateSince sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies.Thought would destroy their paradise.No more where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.
The still small voice of gratitude.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene<br/>The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:<br/>Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,<br/>And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes; / Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
What female heart can gold despise? / What cat's averse to fish?
There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, / The few, whom genius gave to shine / Through every unborn age, and undiscovered clime.
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
He passed the flaming bounds of space and time: / The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, / Where angels tremble while they gaze, / He saw; but blasted with excess of light, / Closed his eyes in endless night.
[...] where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.
Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.