The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.