The church bells toll a melancholy round, <br />Calling the people to some other prayers, <br />Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, <br />More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound. <br />Surely the mind of man is closely bound <br />In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears <br />Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs, <br />And converse high of those with glory crowned. <br />Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, <br />A chill as from a tomb, did I not know <br />That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, - <br />That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go <br />Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow, <br />And many glories of immortal stamp.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/written-on-a-summer-evening/
