LOST.
High out 61 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 tor Greece or Rome. Up, up their visions sped To this lmmenser home. Here, the 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.”
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/TS19281212.2.125
Bibliographic details
Star (Christchurch), Issue 18635, 12 December 1928, Page 12
Word Count
83LOST. Star (Christchurch), Issue 18635, 12 December 1928, Page 12
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