Pan Is Dead! Great Pan Is Dead!

A Woman's Pity Sometimes Makes Her Mad.

I Work With Patience, Which Is Almost Power.

Who Can Fear Too Many Stars, Though Each In Heaven Shall Roll- Too Many Flowers, Though Each Shall Crown The Year? Say Thou Dost Love Me, Love Me, Love Me-toll The Silver Iterance!-only Minding, Dear, To Love Me Also In Silence, With Thy Soul.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.

With Stammering Lips And Insufficient Sound I Strive And Struggle To Deliver Right The Music Of My Nature.