Explore "Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition" by John Keats on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 / 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 / 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.