How many bards gild the lapses of time! <br />A few of them have ever been the food <br />Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood <br />Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: <br />And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, <br />These will in throngs before my mind intrude: <br />But no confusion, no disturbance rude <br />Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. <br />So the unnumbered sounds that evening store; <br />The songs of birds—the whispering of the leaves— <br />The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves <br />With solemn sound,—and thousand others more, <br />That distance of recognizance bereaves, <br />Makes pleasing music, and not wild uproar.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-iv-how-many-bards-gild-the-lapses-of-time/
