By Wayside and High Spire

The silent world of blooms
shares in the world of bells;
for sky-large sound, fainted smells.

Along some woven paths,
in the quiet-down of dusk,
meek starlight in the underbrush

releases little scents:
the wood's twice hidden flowers.
(Once by size, then by mingled towers;

then the fragrance given-
if sought- is the thrice thing hidden.)
And what but air-carried clang-ridden

swing of bells should match them?
Each pouring out what bees and souls
hone back to a source: one faints; one tolls.

But now few bells are swung;
and the wood's profuse with blooms.
And their scents, spun from ageless looms,

are still quaintly, faintly flung.