|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
- Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.