Poems, by John Keats

How Many Bards Gild the Lapses of Time!

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

A few of them have ever been the food

Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood

Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:

And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,

These will in throngs before my mind intrude:

But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; ’tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumber’d sounds that evening store;

The songs of birds — the whisp’ring of the leaves —

The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves

With solemn sound, — and thousand others more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56