Dong, sounds the brass in the east,
As if to a funeral feast,
But I like that sound the best
Out of the fluttering west

The steeple ringeth a knell,
But the fairies' silvery bell
Is the voice of that gentle folk,
Or else the horizon that spoke

Its metal is not of brass,
But air, and water, and glass,
And under a cloud it is swung,
And by the wind it is rung,

When the steeple tolleth the noon
It soundeth not so soon,
Yet it rings a far earlier hour,
And the sun has not reached its tower