Carillon
In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
But amid my broken slumbers
Still I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,
Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.
And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,
Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ringing,
And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
Wet with most delicious tears.
Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,
Listening with a wild delight
To the chimes that, through the night
Bang their changes from the Belfry
Of that quaint old Flemish city.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Related quotes
The Bells of Malines
AUGUST 17, 1914
The gabled roofs of old Malines
Are russet red and gray and green,
And o'er them in the sunset hour
Looms, dark and huge, St. Rombold's tower.
High in that rugged nest concealed,
The sweetest bells that ever pealed,
The deepest bells that ever rung,
The lightest bells that ever sung,
Are waiting for the master's hand
To fling their music o'er the land.
And shall they ring to-night, Malines?
In nineteen hundred and fourteen,
The frightful year, the year of woe,
When fire and blood and rapine flow
Across the land from lost Liege,
Storm-driven by the German rage?
The other carillons have ceased:
Fallen is Hasselt, fallen Diest,
From Ghent and Bruges no voices come,
Antwerp is silent, Brussels dumb!
But in thy belfry, O Malines,
The master of the bells unseen
Has climbed to where the keyboard stands,--
To-night his heart is in his hands!
Once more, before invasion's hell
Breaks round the tower he loves so well,
Once more he strikes the well-worn keys,
And sends aerial harmonies
Far-floating through the twilight dim
In patriot song and holy hymn.
O listen, burghers of Malines!
Soldier and workman, pale beguine,
And mother with a trembling flock
Of children clinging to thy frock,--
Look up and listen, listen all!
What tunes are these that gently fall
Around you like a benison?
"The Flemish Lion," "Brabanconne,"
"O brave Liege," and all the airs
That Belgium in her bosom bears.
Ring up, ye silvery octaves high,
Whose notes like circling swallows fly;
And ring, each old sonorous bell,--
'' Jesu," "Maria," "Michael!"
Weave in and out, and high and low,
The magic music that you know,
And let it float and flutter down
To cheer the heart of the troubled town.
Ring out, "Salvator," lord of all,--
"Roland" in Ghent may hear thee call!
O brave bell-music of Malines,
In this dark hour how much you mean!
The dreadful night of blood and tears
Sweeps down on Belgium, but she hears
Deep in her heart the melody
Of songs she learned when she was free.
She will not falter, faint, nor fail,
But fight until her rights prevail
And all her ancient belfries ring
"The Flemish Lion," "God Save the King!"
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Antwerp And Bruges
I climbed the stair in Antwerp church,
What time the circling thews of sound
At sunset seem to heave it round.
Far up, the carillon did search
The wind, and the birds came to perch
Far under, where the gables wound.
In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt
I stood along, a certain space
Of night. The mist was near my face;
Deep on, the flow was heard and felt.
The carillon kept pause, and dwelt
In music through the silent place.
John Memmeling and John van Eyck
Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame
I scanned the works that keep their name.
The carillon, which then did strike
Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike:
It set me closer unto them.
I climbed at Bruges all the flight
The belfry has of ancient stone.
For leagues I saw the east wind blown;
The earth was grey, the sky was white.
I stood so near upon the height
That my flesh felt the carillon.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Oliver Basselin. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
In the Valley of the Vire
Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window-sill,
On the stone,
These words alone:
'Oliver Basselin lived here.'
Far above it, on the steep,
Ruined stands the old Chateau;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
Left for shelter or for show.
Its vacant eyes
Stare at the skies,
Stare at the valley green and deep.
Once a convent, old and brown,
Looked, but ah! it looks no more,
From the neighboring hillside down
On the rushing and the roar
Of the stream
Whose sunny gleam
Cheers the little Norman town.
In that darksome mill of stone,
To the water's dash and din,
Careless, humble, and unknown,
Sang the poet Basselin
Songs that fill
That ancient mill
With a splendor of its own.
Never feeling of unrest
Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed;
Only made to be his nest,
All the lovely valley seemed;
No desire
Of soaring higher
Stirred or fluttered in his breast.
True, his songs were not divine;
Were not songs of that high art,
Which, as winds do in the pine,
Find an answer in each heart;
But the mirth
Of this green earth
Laughed and revelled in his line.
From the alehouse and the inn,
Opening on the narrow street,
Came the loud, convivial din,
Singing and applause of feet,
The laughing lays
That in those days
Sang the poet Basselin.
In the castle, cased in steel,
Knights, who fought at Agincourt,
Watched and waited, spur on heel;
But the poet sang for sport
Songs that rang
Another clang,
Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.
In the convent, clad in gray,
Sat the monks in lonely cells,
Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,
And the poet heard their bells;
But his rhymes
Found other chimes,
Nearer to the earth than they.
Gone are all the barons bold,
Gone are all the knights and squires,
Gone the abbot stern and cold,
And the brotherhood of friars;
Not a name
Remains to fame,
From those mouldering days of old!
But the poet's memory here
Of the landscape makes a part;
Like the river, swift and clear,
Flows his song through many a heart;
Haunting still
That ancient mill,
In the Valley of the Vire.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Villanelle Of Spring Bells
Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.
Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring
warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Submitted by Andrew Todd
poem by Keith Douglas
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Belfry of Bruges, The
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the
town.
As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of
widowhood.
Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors
gray,
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape
lay.
At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and
there,
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like,
into air.
Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.
From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and
high;
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the
sky.
Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,
Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the
choir;
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a
friar.
Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;
All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.
I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece
of Gold
Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.
I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;
And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the
queen,
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed
between.
I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;
Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.
And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;
Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand,
"I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"
Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once
more.
Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Belfrey of Bruges
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfrey old and brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.
As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,
And the world through off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.
Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray,
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.
At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there,
Wreathes of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into the air.
Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.
From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swollows wild and high;
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.
Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,
Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir;
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.
Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;
All the foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy du Dampierre.
I beheld the pageants splended that adorned those days of old;
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold;
Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.
I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;
I behed the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;
And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen,
And the armèd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.
I beheld the flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;
Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.
And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;
Till the bells of Ghent resounded o'er lagoons and dike of sand,
"I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"
Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.
Hours had passed away like minutes; and before I was aware,
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Chains Invisible
THE lilies in my garden grow,
Wide meadows ring my garden round,
In that green copse wild violets blow,
And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.
For all you see and all you hear,
The city might be miles away,
And yet you feel the city near
Through all the quiet of the day.
Sweet smells the earth--wet with sweet rain--
Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,
And from the wood beyond the lane
I hear the hidden nightingale.
Though field and wood about me lie,
Hushed soft in dew and deep delight,
Yet can I hear the city's sigh
Through all the silence of the night.
For me the skylark builds and sings,
For me the vine her garland weaves;
The swallow folds her glossy wings
To build beneath my cottage eaves.
But I can feel the giant near,
Can hear his slaves by daylight weep,
And when at last the night is here,
I hear him moaning in his sleep.
Oh! for a little space of ground,
Though not a flower should make it gay,
Where miles of meadows wrapped me round,
And leagues and leagues of silence lay.
Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down,
A black night and a rising sea,
And never a thought of London town,
To steal the world's delight from me.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sound Sleep
Some are laughing, some are weeping;
She is sleeping, only sleeping.
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
There the wind is heaping, heaping
Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping.
By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.
There are lilies, and there blushes
The deep rose, and there the thrushes
Sing till latest sunlight flushes
In the west; a fresh wind brushes
Through the leaves while evening hushes.
There by day the lark is singing
And the grass and weeds are springing;
There by night the bat is winging;
There for ever winds are bringing
Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.
Night and morning, noon and even,
Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:
The long strife at lent is striven:
Till her grave-bands shall be riven
Such is the good portion given
To her soul at rest and shriven.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Wind Chimes
Hangin' down from my window
Those are my wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
In the late afternoon you're
Hung up on wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
Though it's hard i try
Not to look at my wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
Now and then a tear rolls on my cheek
On a warm breeze the little bells
Tinklin' wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
Close your eyes and lean back
Listen to wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
It's so peaceful
Close to a lullabye
The wind chimes tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
The wind chimes tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
Da do do da do do da do do da do do
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song For You
With notes so dear to you
I have written a song.
It rhymes with your dreams
And has a rythum of your musing lines.
With tunes so clear to you
I have given a music.
It chimes with our sighs
And has a rein of our living times.
With feelings inward in me
I wait for you my pal, forward in glee.
As the hands of the clock strike in spree
My mind hears your steps within me.
Where you are, I know not.
Shall I begin to sing the song?
Where you are, you say not.
A song for you I have....
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day
I heard the bells on christmas day their old familiar carols play, and wild and
Sweet the words repeat of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come, the belfries of all christendom had rolled
Along th'un broken song of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair i bowed my head; "there is no peace on earth," i said, "for hate
Is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep; "god is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men."
Till, ringing singing on it's way, the world revolved from night to day. a
Voice, a chime, a chant sublime, of peace on earth, good will to men.
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Heard The Bell On Christmas Day
I heard the bells on christmas day their old familiar carols play, and wild and
Sweet the words repeat of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come, the belfries of all christendom had rolled
Along thun broken song of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head; there is no peace on earth, I said, for hate
Is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep; God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men.
Till, ringing singing on its way, the world revolved from night to day. a
Voice, a chime, a chant sublime, of peace on earth, good will to men.
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The small writer
As I walk on Guido Gezelle’s birth ground,
Bruges, a city full of people is spread around me,
there’s a small boat with sails flapping in the wind,
cathedrals and channels are everywhere, a place where you can love
and in a channel there’s something small circling
dressed in black armoured skin
but maybe it’s only my imagination
comprehending secret words written on the water surface
and when I look up into the sky
there are clouds closing
and suddenly it’s as if the clouds open
with His great presence coming down,
I have to cover my eyes against the bright light
and I see a water beetle drawing the names of God on the water.
[Reference: Het Schrijverke by Guido Gezelle. Bruges is a city in Belgium.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Last Night I Dreamed Of Heaven
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF HEAVEN
WRITER HANK WILLIAMS
Last night I dreamed of heaven and I saw my mother there
Standing with all the angels on a golden stair
I thought I heard her whisper welcome home my boy
Last night I dreamed of heaven and it filled my heart with joy
I heard the angels singing songs of peace and rest
And then there was a silence
Each eye looked toward the west
There sat my Saviour on his golden throne
Last night I dreamed of heaven my eternal home sweet home
Last night I dreamed of heaven that land so pure and sweet
And the joy within me made my glad heart weep
I was there with my Saviour free from grief and strife
Last night I dreamed of heaven the land of eternal life
I heard the angels singing songs of peace and rest
And then there was a silence
Each eye looked toward the west
There sat my Saviour on his golden throne
Last night I dreamed of heaven my eternal home sweet home
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Echoes of silence
A silent scream
A bad dream..
nightmare
Wake me up
Some one dare
Spare me.. spare!
Everytime i remember
that touch that smell
The day i experienced hell
my cross to bear
All my life
My death knell
My tortured sigh
someone hear in silence
my helplessness
As i laid that night
Silence echoes my fight
my plight!
Silence echoes
Scot free, he walks away
echoes till this day
Silence echoes
My lost innocence
At nights in dreams..
Night, witness to my pain
Driving me insane
within my heart...
Silence echoes,
My silent scream
my broken dreams..
Silence echoes....
poem by Meena Iyer
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Hymn to the Night
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,--
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Voices Of The Night : Hymn To The Night
Aspasie, trillistos.
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, -
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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New England Sabbath Bells
Methinks I hear those tuneful chimes,
Borne on the breath of morn,
Proclaiming to the silent world
Another Sabbath born.
With solemn sound they echo through
The stilly summer air,
Winning the heart of wayward man
Unto the house of prayer!
New England's sweet church-going bells,
Their memory's very dear;
And oft in dreams we seem to hear
Them ringing loud and clear.
Again we see the village-spire
Pointing toward the skies;
And hear our reverend pastor tell
Of life that never dies!
We see him moving down the aisle,
In light subdued and dim;
The while the organ's swelling notes
Chant forth the grateful hymn.
The forms of those our childhood knew,
By meadow, grove and hill,
Are gathering round with kindly looks,
As if they loved us still!
In careless hours of gladsome youth,
'Twas our thrice-blessed lot,
To dwell upon New England's shores,
Where God is not forgot.
Where temples to his name are raised,
And where, on bended knee,
The Christian sends to heavenly courts
The worship of the free!
New England's Sabbath chimes!--we love
Upon those words to dwell;
They fall upon our spirits with
A sweetly-soothing spell,
Bringing to mind those brighter days
When hope beamed on our way,
And life seemed to our souls but one
Pure and unclouded day!
New England's Sabbath bells!--when last
We heard their merry chime,
The air was rife with pleasant sounds;
For 'twas the glad spring-time!
The robin to those tuneful peals
Poured forth a thrilling strain;
O, 'tis our dearest hope to hear
Those Sabbath bells again!
For now we're many a weary mile
From that New England home;
In lands where laughing summer lies,
Our wandering footsteps roam.
But yet those sweetly-chiming bells
Those heavenward-pointing spires,
Awaken e'er the brightest glow
From memory's vestal-fires.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Little Village
(Van Morrison)
Little village baby, ain't large enough to be a town
From a little village baby, ain't large enough to be a town
Gotta get away from the city
It's gonna bring you down
Heard the voice of the silence, in the evening
In the long cool summer nights
Heard the voice of the silence, in the evening
In the long cool summer nights
Telling me not to worry
Everything's gonna be all right
There's only two kinds of truth
Baby let's get it straight from the start
There's only two kinds of truth
Let's get it straight from the start
It's all what you believe
Baby in your head and your heart
Heard the bells ringing
Voices singing soft and low
Heard the bells ringing
Voices are singing soft and low
Way up in the mountain, little village in the snow
Raining in the forest
Just enough to magnetise the leaves
Raining in the forest
Just enough to magnetise the leaves
We'll go walking baby with the moonlight shining down through the trees
Little village, way up on the mountainside
Little village baby, way up on the mountainside
Way across the ocean with you by my side
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th'unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head:
'There is no peace on earth, ' I said
'For hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.'
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
'God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.'
Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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