ght expands and his rapture rises,
he soon acknowledges that, so far from grieving for Keats who _is_ dead,
it were far more relevant to grieve for himself who is _not_ dead. This
paean of recantation and aspiration occupies the remainder of the poem.

1. 2. _These carrion kites._ A term of disparagement corresponding
nearly enough to the 'ravens' and 'vultures' of st. 28.

1. 3. _He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead._ With such of the dead
as have done something which survives themselves. It will be observed
that the phrase 'he wakes _or_ sleeps' leaves the question of personal
or individual immortality quite open. As to this point see the remarks
on p. 54, &c.

1. 4. Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. This is again
addressed to the 'deaf and viperous murderer,' regarded for the
moment as a 'carrion kite.' As kites are eminently high flyers,
the phrase here used becomes the more emphatic. This line of
Shelley's is obviously adapted from a passage in Milton's _Paradise
Lost_, where Satan addresses the angels in Eden (Book 4)--

'Ye knew me once, no mate
For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar.'

1. 5. _The pure spirit shall flow_, &c. The spirit which once was the
vital or mental essence--the soul--of Adonais came from the Eternal
Soul, and, now that he is dead, is re-absorbed into the Eternal Soul: as
such, it is imperishable.

1. 9. _Whilst thy cold embers choke_, &c. The spirit of Adonais came as
a flame from the 'burning fountain' of the Eternal, and has now reverted
thither, he being one of the 'enduring dead.' But the 'deaf and viperous
murderer' must not hope for a like destiny. His spirit, after death,
will be merely like 'cold embers,' cumbering the 'hearth of shame.' As a
rhetorical antithesis, this serves its purpose well: no doubt Shelley
would not have pretended that it is a strictly reasoned antithesis as
well, or furnishes a full account of the _post-mortem_ fate of the
_Quarterly_ reviewer.

+Stanza 39,+ 11. 1, 2. _Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not
sleep! He hath awakened from the dream of life._ Shelley now
proceeds boldly to declare that the state which we call death is to
be preferred to that which we call life. Keats is neither dead nor
sleeping. He used to be asleep, perturbed and tantalized by the
dream which is termed life. Having at last awakened from the
dream, he is no longer asleep: and, if life is no more than a dream,
neither does the ces