At rest Hard by the margin of that sea Whose sounds are mingled with his noble verse, Now lies the shell that never more will house The fine, strong spirit of my gifted friend. Yea, he who flashed upon us suddenly, A shining soul with syllables of fire, Who sang the first great songs these lands can claim To be their own; the one who did not seem To know what royal place awaited him Within the Temple of the Beautiful, Has passed away; and we who knew...
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