|by John Keats|
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.|
Note: A recitation can be heard here.
- Mark Olival-Bartley
- As the resident poet at EcoHealth, my verse finds inspiration these days in the specter of future pandemics. For my dissertation at LMU's Amerika-Institut, I'm anatomizing the poetics (especially the prosody) of E. A. Robinson's sonnets. I also teach at Münchner Volkshochschule and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.