He never of this Musick has his fill,
There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.
John Bunyan
226
THE BELFRY
Dark is the stair, and humid the old walls
Wherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.
Only by loophole chinks at intervals
Pierces the late glow of this August hour.
Two truant children climb the stairway dark,