Gay golden volleys
of banter
Bombard the clockwork grief;
A frisson of gold at the centre
of prayer, bright core of life.
Who knew the old lofty tower,
The ancient holy eye,
To come open like a flower
To roll and wink with joy?
Townspeople, who wear
shrewd colours and know the move,
Now blunder and wander, i swear,
in a transport of love.
And the belfry, hale and blest:
Picture the jolly hand
Milking each swinging breast
Of its laughing golden sound.
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