Sonnet

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 unnumber’d sounds that evening store;
  The songs of birds⁠—the whisp’ring of the leaves⁠—
  The voice of waters⁠—the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound,⁠—and thousand others more,
  That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.