He Lives Most Life Whoever Breathes Most

It Is Difficult To Get Rid Of People When You Once Have Given Them Too Much Pleasure.

Yet Half The Beast Is The Great God Pan, To Laugh, As He Sits By The River, Making A Poet Out Of A Man. The True Gods Sigh For The Cost And The Pain-- For The Reed That Grows Never More Again As A Reed With The Reeds Of The River.

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.

Books, Books, Books! I Had Found The Secret Of A Garret Room Piled High With Cases In My Father’s Name; Piled High, Packed Large,--where, Creeping In And Out Among The Giant Fossils Of My Past, Like Some Small Nimble Mouse Between The Ribs Of A Mastodon, I Nibbled Here And There At This Or That Box, Pulling Through The Gap, In Heats Of Terror, Haste, Victorious Joy, The First Book First. And How I Felt It Beat Under My Pillow, In The Morning’s Dark, An Hour Before The Sun Would Let Me Read! My Books!

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.