The paths of glory lead but to the grave. - Thomas Gray

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise.