Thought would destroy their paradise.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.

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.

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.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

The still small voice of gratitude.