Implores The Passing Tribute Of A Sigh.

The Time Will Come, When Thou Shalt Lift Thine Eyes To Watch A Long-drawn Battle In The Skies. While Aged Peasants, Too Amazed For Words, Stare At The Flying Fleets Of Wondrous Birds.

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.

Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight! Ye Unborn Ages, Crowd Not On My Soul!

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.