(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821 / London, England)

Written On A Summer Evening

The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
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.

User Rating: 3,1 / 5 ( 87 votes ) 17

Comments (17)

Extremely romantic poem with extraordinary skill and rhythm... Beautifully executed.. Silence deep
This is such a lovely poem and I commend you for including it on the PoemHunter.com website. BUT poetry loses all its charm and potency when 'spoken' by an automaton - wholly without feeling and without any idea as to the importance of UNDERSTANDING how Keats's lines should flow from one to the other. PLEASE keep the written poems on your website, but equally, please disconnect the monotone robotic voice.
.............truly wish I could write a poem like this one.....
............an outstanding poem written on a summer evening....enjoyed..
Read this poem 24/7 and always thought of a morning prayer.
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