Dome of Many-Coloured Glass by Amy Lowell
page 44 of 88 (50%)
page 44 of 88 (50%)
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To Elizabeth Ward Perkins Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme Had force to rise from apathy, And shaking off its lethargy Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime. But in my soul's high belfry, chill The bitter wind of doubt has blown, The summer swallows all have flown, The bells are frost-bound, mute and still. Upon the crumbling boards the snow Has drifted deep, the clappers hang Prismed with icicles, their clang Unheard since ages long ago. The rope I pull is stiff and cold, My straining ears detect no sound Except a sigh, as round and round The wind rocks through the timbers old. Below, I know the church is bright With haloed tapers, warm with prayer; |
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