 | A book of Bristol sonnets |  |
34
SUNDAY IN BRISTOL.
All through the week above the town there sprung,From stately cupola and chimney tall,
A smoke-roof wreathing coign to capital!
There was such noise those sunless aisles among,
You heard not what men groaned, or children sung.
To-day the city stands funereal,
A ruined Abbey, vast, majestical!
And down bare cloisters people wondering throng!
Swifter to build than those smoke-angel wings,
Hark! music charms, from spire to spire, a roof!
The Heaven is filled with sweetest flutterings,
And Sabbath church-bells weave a sounding woof!
Low in Mid-Temple steamy Dagon thrown!
This day the God of Peace and Rest is known!
| A book of Bristol sonnets | |