IX

Oh, weep for Adonais! The quick Dreams,

The passion-winged Ministers of thought,

Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught

The love which was its music, wander not–

Wander no mare, from kindling brain to brain,

But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their log

Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,

They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.

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