I.

To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun,
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspToll slowly.
And the oldest ringer said, "Ours is music for the dead
       &nbsp       &nbspWhen the rebecks are all done."

II.

Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on the north side in a row,
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspToll slowly.
And the shadows of their tops rock across the little slopes
       &nbsp       &nbspOf the grassy graves below.


III.

On the south side and the west a small river runs in haste,
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspToll slowly.
And, between the river flowing and the fair green trees a-growing,
       &nbsp       &nbspDo the dead lie at their rest.

IV.

On the east I sate that day, up against a willow grey:
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspToll slowly.
Through the rain of willow-branches I could see the low hill-ranges
       &nbsp       &nbspAnd the river on its way.
V.

There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly,
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspToll slowly.
While the trees' and river's voices flowed between the solemn noises,—
       &nbsp       &nbspYet death seemed more loud to me.

VI.

There I read this ancient rhyme while the bell did all the time
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbspToll slowly.
And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin,
       &nbsp       &nbspLike a rhythmic fate sublime.