XLI

       He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
       Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn,
       Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
       The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
       Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
       Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,
       Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown
       O’er the abandon’d Earth, now leave it bare
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!

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