He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and — Percy Bysshe Shelley

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world’s slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain.

Adonais, st. 40

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