Oh, The Little Birds Sang East, And

My Sun Sets To Raise Again.

I Remember, When I Was A Child And Wrote Poems In Little Clasped Books, I Used To Kiss The Books And Put Them Away Tenderly Because I Had Been Happy Near Them, And Take Them Out By Turns When I Was Going From Home, To Cheer Them By The Change Of Air And The Pleasure Of The New Place. This, Not For The Sake Of The Verses Written In Them, And Not For The Sake Of Writing More Verses In Them, But From Pure Gratitude.

Utterance Is The Evidence Of Foregone Study.

What Is Genius But The Power Of Expressing A New Individuality?

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