Some People Always Sigh In Thanking God.

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!"

God Himself Is The Best Poet, And The Real Is His Song.

Eyes Of Gentianellas Azure, Staring, Winking At The Skies.

O Earth, So Full Of Dreary Noises! O Men, With Wailing In Your Voices! O Delved Gold, The Wader's Heap! O Strife, O Curse, That O'er It Fall! God Makes A Silence Through You All, And "giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O My Brothers?