“Henceforth all poetry is dead!”
“The Ideal age, the lyric strain
Expire; with them the fairy reign;
The Real comes with iron tread:—
Henceforth all poetry is dead!”
So said the king, and as he spoke
Long, heavy, rolling thunders broke
Above them, rattling through the spheres,
Whose eyes were drowned with pitying tears.
The wind arose and struck the wood;