John Keats (1795–1821)

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition 1816

The church bells toll a melancholy round,

Calling the people to some other prayers,

Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,

More hearkening to the sermon’s horrid sound.

Surely the mind of man is closely bound 5

In some black spell; seeing that each one tears

Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,

And converse high of those with glory crown’d.

Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,—

A chill as from a tomb, did I not know 10

That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;

That ’tis their sighing, wailing ere they go

Into oblivion;—that fresh flowers will grow,

And many glories of immortal stamp.