This poem has always exerted a fascination over me. Its slightly rather uneasy magic is typical of Coleridge at his most creative; its unfinished nature (in contrast to that of Kubla Khan, which has always seemed to me rather an "excuse" for a perceived lack of finish in what is indubitably a masterpiece) is a tantalising shame, or perhaps a blessing in disguise, in that the magic remains undisturbed by possible bathos. The art of Coleridge was always too fragile to be happy with closure...
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