The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!