God Himself Is The Best Poet, And

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!"

For Poets (bear The Word) Half-poets Even, Are Still Whole Democrats.

Utterance Is The Evidence Of Foregone Study.

When The Dust Of Death Has Choked A Great Man's Voice, The Common Words He Said Turn Oracles, The Common Thoughts He Yoked Like Horses Draw Like Griffins.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.