For What Is Glory But

Innumerable As The Stars Of Night, Or Stars Of Morning, Dewdrops Which The Sun Impearls On Every Leaf And Every Flower.

A Dungeon Horrible, On All Sides Round, As One Great Furnace, Flamed; Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible Serv'd Only To Discover Sights Of Woe, Regions Of Sorrow, Doleful Shades, Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell, Hope Never Comes That Comes To All; But Torture Without End.

And Feel That I Am Happier Than I Know.

Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!

The Tree Of Knowledge Grew Fast By, Knowledge Of Good Bought Dear By Knowing Ill.