The English Have A Scornful Insular Way

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

Yes, I Answered You Last Night; No, This Morning, Sir, I Say: Colors Seen By Candle-light Will Not Look The Same By Day.

My Love For Him Was So Exquisitely Pure That If We All Were Capable Of Giving And Receiving Such A Beautiful Gift The World Would Be A Far More Brilliant Place; I Think We'd All Be Poets.

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

If I Leave All For Thee, Wilt Thou Exchange And Be All To Me?