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