| John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884. |
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| 17. How many bards gild the lapses of time! |
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| 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, | 5 |
| 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— | 10 |
| 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. | |
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