God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"
I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.
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.
May the good God pardon all good men.
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!"