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!"

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

I work with patience, which is almost power.

But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.

The essence of all beauty, I call love.

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.