Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

We Often Excuse Our Own Want Of Philanthropy By Giving The Name Of Fanaticism To The More Ardent Zeal Of Others.

When She Had Passed, It Seemed Like The Ceasing Of Exquisite Music.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

Every Author Has The Whole Past To Contend With; All The Centuries Are Upon Him. He Is Compared With Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton.

I Shot An Arrow Into The Air, It Fell To Earth, I Knew Not Where; For, So Swiftly It Flew, The Sight Could Not Follow It In Its Flight. I Breathed A Song Into The Air, It Fell To Earth, I Knew Not Where; For Who Has Sight So Keen And Strong, That It Can Follow The Flight Of Song? Long, Long Afterward, In An Oak I Found The Arrow, Still Unbroke; And The Song, From Beginning To End, I Found Again In The Heart Of A Friend.