THE chime of the bells, and the
church clock
striking eight
Solemnly and distinctly cries down the
babel
of
children still playing in the hay.
The church draws nearer upon us, gentle and
great
In shadow,
covering us up with her grey.
Like drowsy children the houses fall
asleep
Under the
fleece of shadow, as in between
Tall and dark the church moves, anxious to
keep
Their sleeping,
cover them soft unseen.
Hardly a murmur comes from the
sleeping brood,
I
wish the church had covered me up with the rest
In the home-place. Why is it
she should exclude
Me so distinctly from sleeping with those I love
best?