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. |
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting full, but sweeter yet. The still small voice of gratitude. |
Th' applause of listening senates to command, / The threats of pain and ruin to despise,/ To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, / And read their history in a nation's eyes. |
The Attic warbler pours her throat, / Responsive to the cuckoo's note. |
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 |
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,/ The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, / The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, / No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. |
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, / The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, / The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, / And leaves the world to darkness and to me. |
The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints not of woe |
The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose. |
The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise. |
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. |
The still small voice of gratitude. |
The war was over, ... They were defeated by the time he dropped those bombs -- I think he wanted to know whether they would work. And I think Truman was the kind of guy when he disliked you, he disliked you with a passion. |
The wording of the contract is no different than the original offer. There's no protection on our jobs whatsoever. There's no guarantee that I'll be going back to work. |
Their tears, their little triumphs o'er, / Their human passions now no more. |