- Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition
- John Keats
- Exported from Wikisource on 03/21/20
- 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 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 too, 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.
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