I HEAR the bell-rope sawing, And the oil-less axle grind, As I sit alone here drawing What some Gothic brain designed; And I catch the toll that follows From the lagging bell, Ere it spreads to hills and hollows Where people dwell. I ask not whom it tolls for, Incurious who he be; So, some morrow, when those knolls for One unguessed, sound out for me, A stranger, loitering under In nave or choir, May think, too, "Whose, I wonder?" But not inquire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SCHRECKHORN by THOMAS HARDY HIS RETURN TO LONDON by ROBERT HERRICK WINTER WITH THE GULF STREAM by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THALIA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AT THE FIRESIDE by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |