Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 8

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The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue,

Will not reveal what peals were rung

In Faery, in Faery,

A thousand ages gone.

All the golden clappers hang

As if but now the changes rang;

Only from the mottled throat

Never any echoes float.

Quite forgotten, in the wood,

Pale, crowded steeples rise;

All the time that they have stood

None has heard their melodies.

Deep, deep in wizardry

All the foxglove belfries stand.

Should they startle over the land,

None would know what bells they be.

Never any wind can ring them,

Nor the great black bees that swing them—

Every crimson bell, down-slanted,

Is so utterly enchanted.