And

Further down,

Never had I more 
Excited, passionate, fantasticalImagination, nor an ear and eyeThat more expected the impossible—No, not in boyhood when with rod and flyOr the humbler worm I climbed Ben Bufcen’s back 
And had the livelong summer day to spend.

Tsk Tsk.  And

The mountain throws a shadow,
Thin is the moon’s horn; 
Wha did we remember
Under the ragged thorn?
Dread has followed longing
And our hearts are torn.

This is not rocket science: it isn't even really lit crit. It's called reading.

At least he died before seeing it.

At least they didn't, as far as I can see, fuck up

“O cruel death give three things back,” 
Sang a bone upon the shore;
“A child found all a child can lack 
Whether of pleasure or of rest
Upon the abundance of my breast”;A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.

“Three dear things that women know” 
Sang a bone upon the shore
“A man if I but held him so
When my body was alive
Found all the pleasure that life gave”;A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.

“The third thing that I think of yet” 
Sang a bone upon the shore,
“Is that morning when I met
Face to face my rightful man
And did after stretch and yawn”;A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.