For 'tis Not In Mere Death That

Like To Write? Of Course, Of Course I Do. I Seem To Live While I Write - It Is Life, For Me.

Pan Is Dead! Great Pan Is Dead! Pan, Pan Is Dead!

For Me, My Heart, That Erst Did Go Most Like A Tired Child At A Show, That Sees Through Tears The Mummers Leap, Would Now Its Wearied Vision Close, Would Childlike On His Love Repose, Who Giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

Books Are Men Of Higher Stature, And The Only Men That Speak Aloud For Future Times To Hear.

Will That Light Come Again, As Now These Tears Come...falling Hot And Real!