The still small voice of gratitude.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
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.