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    "I am reminded of the professor who, in his declining hours, was asked by his devoted pupils for his final counsel. He replied, 'Verify your quotations.'"

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    by Oscar Wilde
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    I have no store
    Of gryphon-guarded gold;
    Now, as before,
    Bare is the shepherd's fold.
    Rubies nor pearls
    Have I to gem thy throat;
    Yet woodland girls
    Have loved the shepherd's note.

    Then pluck a reed
    And bid me sing to thee,
    For I would feed
    Thine ears with melody,
    Who art more fair
    Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
    More sweet and rare
    Than sweetest ambergris.

    What dost thou fear?
    Young Hyacinth is slain,
    Pan is not here,
    And will not come again.
    No horned Faun
    Treads down the yellow leas,
    No God at dawn
    Steals through the olive trees.

    Hylas is dead,
    Nor will he e'er divine
    Those little red
    Rose-petalled lips of thine.
    On the high hill
    No ivory dryads play,
    Silver and still
    Sinks the sad autumn day.
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