How Low, How Little Are

And Truth Severe, By Fairy Fiction Drest.

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

They Hear A Voice In Every Wind, And Snatch A Fearful Joy.

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.