John Keats,
Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition
“ Surely the mind of man is closely bound In some black spell; seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, And converse high of those with glory crown'd 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 ”
