St. Margaret's bells, Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles, Sing in the storied air, All rosy-and-golden, as with memories Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas Disconsolate for that night is nigh. O, the low, lingering lights! The large last gleam (Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!) Touching these solemn ancientries, and there, The silver River ranging tide-mark high And the callow, grey-faced Hospital, With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream! The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees, And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky (Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!) Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall. The sober Sabbath stir -- Leisurely voices, desultory feet! -- Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street, Where in their summer frocks the girls go by, And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer, Just as they did an hundred years ago, Just as an hundred years to come they will: -- When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low, And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfill, Nor any sunset fade serene and slow; But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SNOW-FLAKES by MARY ELIZABETH MAPES DODGE THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN by THOMAS HARDY BOUND NO'TH BLUES by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 31. HER GIFTS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI NOT TO BE MINISTERED TO by MALTBIE DAVENPORT BABCOCK THE LAST MAN: EXTREME ACCLIVITY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE RUNNERS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET ANOTHER JOURNEY FROM BETHUNE TO CUINCHY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |