Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

Ah, tell them they are men!

To each his suff'rings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.

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

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.