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ALL'ORA DELLA STELLA.
(Bells of Evening)
Ring the bells of evening, through the gathering dusk;
Ring the bells upon the plain;
Rings the bell from out the tower against the light,
Black against the west aflame, against
The sea of deepening orange, purple, yellow
(O the pale green cowslip-yellow where the crows
Fly swiftly from the dim Campagna homeward);
Ring the bells from out the little chapel yonder,
In the tiny hill-town nestling on its craggy steep.
Ring the bells upon the plain;
Rings the bell from out the tower against the light,
Black against the west aflame, against
The sea of deepening orange, purple, yellow
(O the pale green cowslip-yellow where the crows
Fly swiftly from the dim Campagna homeward);
Ring the bells from out the little chapel yonder,
In the tiny hill-town nestling on its craggy steep.
From this lonely height where, half forgotten,
Life still lingers in unvarying round,
Can they ring away the evil sloth that broodeth
As a bat gigantic broodeth over
The low-breathing bust wherefrom it draws the life-blood?
Can they ring away the dark and stagnant vapours
That abide with men, here, on this height—
On this height now flaming in the sunset
Like a vast carbuncle on a burning desert?
Ring, O ring, O bells, ring, ring,
Not for peace, or rest that sweet is,
Not for happy glooms and tender,
But for storm and tempest rather,
For a fierce and surging tempest
That shall wake the mountain-hollows
With the cry of Life arising!
Life still lingers in unvarying round,
Can they ring away the evil sloth that broodeth
As a bat gigantic broodeth over
The low-breathing bust wherefrom it draws the life-blood?
Can they ring away the dark and stagnant vapours
That abide with men, here, on this height—
On this height now flaming in the sunset
Like a vast carbuncle on a burning desert?
Ring, O ring, O bells, ring, ring,
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Not for happy glooms and tender,
But for storm and tempest rather,
For a fierce and surging tempest
That shall wake the mountain-hollows
With the cry of Life arising!
Rings the solitary bell upon the tower,
Where the fever-stricken monks
Kneel and pray:
Where the monks within the black and lonely tower
Dream that heaven lies yonder,
Where through seas of wondrous living yellow
The star of eve swims forth in silvern fire:
Ah, the heaven that dwelleth yonder!
Ring, O solitary bell, thy vesper,
Toll thy hymn of hopes that are as vapours,
Vapours lit a moment with strange glory
Ere they fade into the darkness following after!
Where the fever-stricken monks
Kneel and pray:
Where the monks within the black and lonely tower
Dream that heaven lies yonder,
Where through seas of wondrous living yellow
The star of eve swims forth in silvern fire:
Ah, the heaven that dwelleth yonder!
Ring, O solitary bell, thy vesper,
Toll thy hymn of hopes that are as vapours,
Vapours lit a moment with strange glory
Ere they fade into the darkness following after!
Ring the bells upon the plain,
All along the misty, vague Campagna:
Unseen hamlets in the hollows, lonely dwellings
Where gaunt hermits kneel and mutter,
Scattered villages, and ruined places
Where the shepherd only sleeps and hears nought ever
Save the wild wind sweeping o'er the grasses,
Or the soft scirocco gliding stilly
O'er the fallen columns, broken arches,
Whereamong his sheep go wandering vaguely,
Hears but these, or cry of hawk or raven,
Nightjar swooping through the moonless dusk—
Hears nought else, save in the lonely distance
The fierce sheepdogs snarling as they watch and prowl.
Softly, slow, the vesper bells are ringing
For all desolate haunts upon the waste,
For all dreary lives upon the lone Campagna,
Lives now spent like spume from ebbing waters,
Spume thrown waste to swelter in the sun,
Spume cast up and left by ebbing waters.
All along the misty, vague Campagna:
Unseen hamlets in the hollows, lonely dwellings
Where gaunt hermits kneel and mutter,
Scattered villages, and ruined places
Where the shepherd only sleeps and hears nought ever
Save the wild wind sweeping o'er the grasses,
Or the soft scirocco gliding stilly
O'er the fallen columns, broken arches,
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Hears but these, or cry of hawk or raven,
Nightjar swooping through the moonless dusk—
Hears nought else, save in the lonely distance
The fierce sheepdogs snarling as they watch and prowl.
Softly, slow, the vesper bells are ringing
For all desolate haunts upon the waste,
For all dreary lives upon the lone Campagna,
Lives now spent like spume from ebbing waters,
Spume thrown waste to swelter in the sun,
Spume cast up and left by ebbing waters.
Ring the bells of evening through the gathering dusk:
Ring the bells upon the plain,
From the tower looming black against the light,
From the hill-town all aflame upon its steep,
Ring the bells:
Clamorous voices they, loud prayers crying
That of the perishing flames of sunset burning,
Of these red and yellow flames swift-fading yonder,
God will make new fires of sunrise splendid,
God will recreate a glorious morning.
Ring the bells upon the plain,
From the tower looming black against the light,
From the hill-town all aflame upon its steep,
Ring the bells:
Clamorous voices they, loud prayers crying
That of the perishing flames of sunset burning,
Of these red and yellow flames swift-fading yonder,
God will make new fires of sunrise splendid,
God will recreate a glorious morning.
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