He Lives Most Life Whoever Breathes Most

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!"

The English Have A Scornful Insular Way Of Calling The French Light.

God Answers Sharp And Sudden On Some Prayers, And Thrusts The Thing We Have Prayed For In Our Face, A Gauntlet With A Gift In It.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.