Thou wast not
born for death,
immortal Bird!
No hungry generations
tread thee down;
The voice I hear
this passing night
was heard
In ancient days
by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song
that found a path
Through the sad heart
of Ruth,
when, sick for home,
She stood in tears
amid the alien corn;
The same that
oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements,
opening on the foam
Of perilous seas,
in faery lands forlorn.
— #Keats
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