"I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot."

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There are ancient and modern poems which breathe, in their entirety and in every detail, the divine breath of irony. In such poemsthere lives a real transcendental buffoonery. Their interior is permeated by the mood which surveys everything and rises infinitely above everything limited, even above the poet's own art, virtue, and genius; and their exterior form by the histrionic style of an ordinary good Italian buffo.

— Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel