O Pusillanimous Heart, Be Comforted And, Like

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

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!"

With What Cracked Pitchers Go We To Deep Wells In This World!

Xi I Sang His Name Instead Of Song; Over And Over I Sang His Name: Backward And Forward I Sang It Along, With My Sweetest Notes, It Was Still The Same! I Sang It Low, That The Slave-girls Near Might Never Guess, From What They Could Hear, That All The Song Was A Name.

We Overstate The Ills Of Life, And Take Imagination... Down Our Earth To Rake.