My sun sets to raise again.

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

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

Quick-loving hearts ... may quickly loathe.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

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!"

Two human loves make one divine.