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<name>John <index>Keats</index></name>

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<title>

<quote>How many bards gild the lapses of time</quote>

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<source>Snagged from <uri>http://www.bartleby.com/126/17.html</uri>. Thanks for the transcription, Bartleby.</source>

<remark>One of the strictest Petrarchan sonnets in this collection. While its theme is somewhat mawkish, for the most part it stands up as a verse about verse. Octave given to poetry, sestet to all the other sounds that a poet might animadvert to, any lapse or anticlimax at the end comes only because finally the poem seems to be only about its rhyme. Nonetheless, the first line alone pushes this sonnet forward, even in Keats's formidable portfolio.</remark>

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<line>How many bards gild the lapses of <rhyme on="a">time</rhyme>!</line>

<line>Of my delighted fancy,—I could <rhyme on="b">brood</rhyme></line>

<line>Over their beauties, earthly, or <rhyme on="a">sublime</rhyme>:</line>

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<line>And often, when I sit me down to <rhyme on="a">rhyme</rhyme>,</line>

<line>These will in throngs before my mind <rhyme on="b">intrude</rhyme>:</line>

<line>But no confusion, no disturbance <rhyme on="b">rude</rhyme></line>

<line>Do they occasion; ’tis a pleasing <rhyme on="a">chime</rhyme>.</line>

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</octave>

<line>So the unnumber’d sounds that evening <rhyme on="c">store</rhyme>;</line>

<line>The songs of birds—the whisp’ring of the <rhyme on="d">leaves</rhyme>—</line>

<line>The voice of waters—the great bell that <rhyme on="d">heaves</rhyme></line>

<line>With solemn sound,—and thousand others <rhyme on="c">more</rhyme>,</line>

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<line>That distance of recognizance <rhyme on="d">bereaves</rhyme>,</line>

<line>Make pleasing music, and not wild <rhyme on="c">uproar</rhyme>.</line>

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