Poems 1817by John Keats

How many bards gild the lapse...

 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.