A precious sound fell through the air.
Even the ravens knew not from where.
A peal of thunder, or of light
The storms of autumn, and of night.
It seemed to shimmer in the clouds,
Down pathless places in the woods;
The peal went curling through the cool
A meadow fire's only fuel.
It was the bell of harvest time
That rang through orchards ripe with wine
That sent the children running home
Before the falling stars of glome.
In the rain of windy dark,
When owls cry and foxes bark,
The clanging notes can still be heard:
The song of some strange brass-bound bird.