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Amy Lowell - To Elizabeth Ward Perkins
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Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme 
  Had force to rise from apathy, 
  And shaking off its lethargy 
Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime. 

But in my soul`s high belfry, chill 
  The bitter wind of doubt has blown, 
  The summer swallows all have flown, 
The bells are frost-bound, mute and still. 

Upon the crumbling boards the snow 
  Has drifted deep, the clappers hang 
  Prismed with icicles, their clang 
Unheard since ages long ago. 

The rope I pull is stiff and cold, 
  My straining ears detect no sound 
  Except a sigh, as round and round 
The wind rocks through the timbers old. 

Below, I know the church is bright 
  With haloed tapers, warm with prayer; 
  But here I only feel the air 
Of icy centuries of night. 

Beneath my feet the snow is lit 
  And gemmed with colours, red, and blue, 
  Topaz, and green, where light falls through 
The saints that in the windows sit. 

Here darkness seems a spectred thing, 
  Voiceless and haunting, while the stars 
  Mock with a light of long dead years 
The ache of present suffering. 

Silent and winter-killed I stand, 
  No carol hymns my debt to you; 
  But take this frozen thought in lieu, 
And thaw its music in your hand.
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