Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

And That Dismal Cry Rose Slowly And Sank Slowly Through The Air, Full Of Spirit's Melancholy And Eternity's Despair; And They Heard The Words It Said,- "pan Is Dead! Great Pan Is Dead! Pan, Pan Is Dead!"

The Flower-girl's Prayer To Buy Roses And Pinks, Held Out In The Smoke, Like Stars By Day.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

Purple Lilies Dante Blew To A Larger Bubble With His Prophet Breath.

Oh, A Day In The City-square, There Is No Such Pleasure In Life!