“Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,” The victor cried, “the glorious prize is mine! […]”

He's never badly.

Keats had his coastline, the people of the Carolinas and Tennessee have their Smokeys.

To those who knew her and to the greatly enlarged circle who were electrified by her last poems and sudden death, she had come to signify the specific honesties and risks of the poet’s condition.