Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife.

But Knowledge To Their Eyes Her Ample Page Rich With The Spoils Of Time Did Ne'er Unroll; Chill Penury Repressed Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

Gay Hope Is Theirs By Fancy Fed, Less Pleasing When Possest; The Tear Forgot As Soon As Shed, The Sunshine Of The Breast.