And while the bell awakes in clearest chime,
Against the limpid, pure, deep morning air,
A passing child will humor Sunday's care,
By angelus in lavender and thyme.
Grazed by the bird he lights, the ringer waits,
In saddest wheeze of ancient Roman plots,
Astride the stone that holds the layman's knots,
And hears a faint and distant ring abate.
I am that man. Alas, from wanton night
Comes the Ideal in cables black and blue,
And from cold sins there frolics plumage true.
This hollow voice I hear in fragment's flight!
One indistinct tired day, I'll yank the stone,
And on the gallows, Satan, end my moan.