The Hand-Bell Ringers
ii.
I left the fire with its flicker and roar,
And drew the curtains back.
On the edge of the grass stood the ringers four;
A dim white railing behind, and the moor
A waste of endless black,
With, somewhere burning, aloof, afar,
A single lonely light;
But never a glimmer of moon or star
To show where the unseen heavens are
Through the whole dark width o' the night.
In front of the rail, in a shadowy row,
Stood the ringers, dim and brown;
Their faces burned with a faded glow,
And spots of light, now high, now low,
With the bells leapt up and down.
But gaze! the figure, barely guessed,
The shadowy face grows clear:
The tall, red prophet who leads the rest,
The sallow lad with the hollow chest;
You see them all appear.
You catch the way they look and stand,
The listening clench of the eyes;
The great round hand-bells, golden and grand.
Grasped a couple in either hand.
And the arms that fall and rise.
So much I behold, and would never complain,
As much and no more could I see.
As clear as air is the window pane
'Twixt me in the light and them in the rain,
Yet strange they look to me!
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