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Updated: May 13, 2025
A rime he makes, sorrow-song for his son there hanging as rapture of ravens; no rescue now can come from the old, disabled man! Forlorn he looks on the lodge of his son, wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers reft of revel. "THEN he goes to his chamber, a grief-song chants alone for his lost. Too large all seems, homestead and house.
The movement of the long melodious sorrow-song has just been interrupted by three stanzas, in which Shelley lashes the reviewer of Keats. He now bursts forth afresh into the music of consolation: Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep! He hath awakened from the dream of life.
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