Classic Poem

So still!
The little bird sits on the window-sill;
The sun behind him is sinking slow;
Down below in the city streets
The people are going to and fro,—
Going home, for their work is done.


‘Tong! Tong!’
It is vesper-hour,
And soft strong booms
Steal out from the great cathedral tower
Over the house-tops, over the plain,
Out towards the sun:
‘Tong! Tong!
Go home, for work is done!’


The old bell-ringer,
He, too, is so still!
Fifty years, at the vesper hour,
He has rung the bell in his eyrie tower;
A dweller there with the birds in the sky,
In the fields of quiet that overlie
The toil of cities,—ringing ‘Peace!
Go home, for work is done!’


There, alone,
Where the undertone
Of the city toil moans up to him,
He has done his part in the busy day,
Ringing the pauses for men to pray,—
Simply, faithfully, fifty years;
Ever, in heart, at his oaken board
Breaking his bread with the crucified Lord,
In whose great name
The bells proclaim
‘Peace! go home, for work is done!’


One by one
The strokes sound on.
He sits in the chair by the window-sill:
The little bird wonders at him so still,
So still in the fingers, so still in the face!
‘What ails the ringer?’ the people say,
‘The vesper-bell rings long to-day:
We have all gone home,
And work is done.’
Low, low,
In the evening glow,
It tolls and tolls.
In the belfry stands a hooded shape,
With a palmer's shell on his shoulder-cape,
As one who goeth from place to place:
He grasps the rope with a bony hand,
Bending with a tender grace
To each rhythm of sweeping sound.
With a noiseless foot he has climbed the stair,
And touched the old man sitting there,
Waiting for the vesper-hour, and said,
‘To-night I ring for you, old friend:
Go home, for work is done!’


So still!
The little bird flies from the window-sill,
The sun has set, and down below
The people are saying, ‘It never rang so,
Never before, so sweet and low!’