The church bells toll a melancholy round, <br />Calling the people to some other prayers, <br />Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, <br />More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. <br />Surely the mind of man is closely bound <br />In some black spell; seeing that each one tears <br />Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, <br />And converse high of those with glory crown'd. <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/sonnet-written-in-disgust-of-vulgar-superstition/
