Poem of the Day.


verse/vol12Keats:
IV.


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.





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Mystery destination!


(Tuesday, 25 September, 2018.)