Sonnet IV: How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!

by John Keats

    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 unnumbered sounds that evening store;
    The songs of birds the whispering of the leaves
    The voice of waters the great bell that heaves
    With solemn sound, and thousand others more,
    That distance of recognizance bereaves,
    Makes pleasing music, and not wild uproar.