Sonnet. Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


The church bells toll a melancholy roundA
Calling the people to some other prayersB
Some other gloominess more dreadful caresB
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid soundA
Surely the mind of man is closely boundA
In some black spell seeing that each one tearsB
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airsB
And converse high of those with glory crown'dA
Still still they toll and I should feel a dampC
A chill as from a tomb did I not knowD
That they are dying like an outburnt lampC
That 'tis their sighing wailing ere they goD
Into oblivion that fresh flowers will growD
And many glories of immortal stampC

John Keats


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