A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


These lips mayn't spell,
Nor this tongue tell,
The full magic of that night,
Of ancient power,
Of Torr, and tower,
Stately stone on stone,
Drained of colour,
Ghostly grey,
In harvest moonlight,
Called by heavenly voices,
Whose secret bidding,
To awaken Mother Earth,
With sacred song,
Those long slumbered spirits,
Summoned by an olden lore,
Sleep no more,
Sleep no more,
Nor could my heart,
As golden harp caressed the air,
Do less than weep and sing,
Filled with distant stirring,
Within what seemed
A holy dream,
Yet we were there,
So blessed to share,

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