The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
John Keats
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Senin, 08 Juni 2009
Written on a Summer Evening
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- Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
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- A child said, What is the grass?
- A child said, What is the grass?
- "It Will Not Change"
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- Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made o...
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