LOST.
High out of Time they fly, Beauties the poets lost— Their dreams that soared too high. Lonely and strange and clear, Shakespeare’s uncaptured bird Sings the note he died to hear. Too fierce for Greece or Rome, Up, up their visions sped To this immenser home. Here, though Keats ceased to be, And prisoned lies In dust, His nightingale went free. Call, anguished poet, call To these wanderers in the vast. Does a broken echo fall? —Gretchen Warren, in the Atlantic Monthly.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/OW19290226.2.310.2
Bibliographic details
Otago Witness, Issue 3911, 26 February 1929, Page 72
Word Count
83LOST. Otago Witness, Issue 3911, 26 February 1929, Page 72
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