Whoso loves, believes in the impossible
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!
I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"
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!"
When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .