Hid in a hollow archstone’s dripping nook,
Hearing it sob, awakens and replies,
Sickening the woeful hush with ghastly cries,
Then suddenly grows silent, in the dread,
That in the belfry tower the bell is dead.”
THE OLD MASTERS
“In smoky inns whose loft is reached by ladders,
And with a grimy ceiling splashed by shocks
Of hanging hams, black puddings, onions, bladders,
Rosaries of stuffed game, capons, geese, and cocks,