THE RINGERS

BOLTON PERCY

The wind flings up across the indifferent stars

Senseless scribbles of leaves from the riven trees.

It moans about their caverns, frets their bars

With voices of cold ruin like the sea’s.

The night’s inhuman brilliance nothing tells

Of faith or joy or any homely thing

Till, suddenly, from the shadowy village, bells

Stumble to music, faltering as they ring.

The ringers learning their change in the church forsaken

King all unknowing a parable of this night.

Their momentary cadences awaken

Unlooked for hope, some gospel out of sight.

Half prayer, half truth, bright failure boldly hurled

Starward! “We try, we must” the belfry saith.

O ringers, you ring the very tune of the world;

You ring a prelude to the psalm of death.