tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12074791.post-1126918397473744242005-09-16T17:53:00.000-07:002005-09-17T18:17:41.240-07:00Por: John Keats <br /><br /><a href="http://www.diegomanuel.com.ar" target="_blank"><img src="http://img330.imageshack.us/img330/5592/000094escritocomorecursodelass.jpg" align="absmiddle" alt="Iglesia caminando - Diego Manuel" width="270" height="340" border="3"></a><br /><br />The church bells toll a melancholy round, <br />Calling the people to some other prayers, <br />Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, <br />More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound. <br />Surely the mind of man is closely bound <br />In some black spell; seeing that each one tears <br />Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, <br />And converse high of those with glory crown'd <br />Still, still they too, and I should feel a damp, - <br />A chill as from a tomb, did I not know <br />That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; <br />That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go <br />Into oblivion; - that fresh flowers will grow, <br />And many glories of immortal stamp.<br /><br /><hr>Tenebrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00321806983504140171noreply@blogger.com