And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

XI I sang his name instead of song; Over and over I sang his name: Backward and forward I sang it along, With my sweetest notes, it was still the same! I sang it low, that the slave-girls near Might never guess, from what they could hear, That all the song was a name.

There are nettles everywhere, but smooth, green grasses are more common still; the blue of heaven is larger than the cloud.

Whoso loves, believes in the impossible

The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.