Saint Magnus and Saint Dunstan call in vain:

From Wren’s forgotten belfries, in the rain,

Down the blank wharves the dropping octaves go.

Forbid not these! Tho’ no man heed, they shower

A subtle beauty on the empty hour,

From all their dark throats aching and outblown;

Aye in the prayerless places welcome most,

Like the last gull that up a naked coast

Deploys her white and steady wing, alone.