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!"

"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

He who breathes deepest lives most.

What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.

Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.