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!"

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

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

The plague of gold strikes far and near.

Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.