The church bells toll a melancholy round, Calling the people to some other prayers, Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound In some black spell; seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, And converse high of those with glory crown'd. 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.
Return to the John Keats library , or . . . Read the next poem; Sonnet: Written On A Blank Page In Shakespeare's Poems, Facing 'A Lover's Complaint'