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

This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

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!"

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

Whoso loves, believes in the impossible

For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.