Swing out ye bells from your signal towers!
Swing out with your tongues of gold!
And mingle your strain, O ye fields of grain,
With a tenderness yet untold,
Till it reach the throngs on those peaks of light
Where the hosts of the holy stand,
And their voices wake for the old love’s sake—
For the loves of life’s yester-land.
SUNDOWN ON THE MARSHES.
The tide is ebbing out to sea;