God Himself Is The Best Poet, And

Of All The Thoughts Of God That Are Borne Inward Unto Souls Afar, Along The Psalmist's Music Deep, Now Tell Me If That Any Is. For Gift Or Grace, Surpassing This-- He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.

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!"

Truth Outlives Pain, As The Soul Does Life.

Deep Violets, You Liken To The Kindest Eyes That Look On You, Without A Thought Disloyal.

His Ears Were Often The First Thing To Catch My Tears.