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Keats, Shelley, and Byron died young. They were doomed youth. They were the war poets of a time before there were any. Neither Keats nor Shelley was machine-gunned in Flanders, but their followers or epigoni were, and Byron went out to fight for Greece and fell at Missolonghi, of a fever, not far from the scene of Rupert Brooke's death, from blood poisoning, in 1915. Their poetry helped to write the poetry of future wars, and their fate helped to spread and perpetuate that feeling for misery and loss, for the destruction of talent and beauty, for blighted promise, for the outcast, the orphan, for the massacre of innocents, by which the romantic person was distinguished. It can sometimes appear that the Great War, when war poets came into being and were required by the public, was shaped by a scenario prepared in the heyday of Romanticism a hundred years before.
Review, 4417 words
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