Seven Times Two. Romance.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,     How many soever they be,     And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges     Come over, come over to me.     Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling     No magical sense conveys,     And bells have forgotten their old art of telling     The fortune of future days.     "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,     While a boy listened alone;     Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily     All by himself on a stone.     Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,     And mine, they are yet to be;     No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:     You leave the story to me.     The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,     And hangeth her hoods of snow;     She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:     O, children take long to grow.     I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,     Nor long summer bide so late;     And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,     For some things are ill to wait.     I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,     While dear hands are laid on my head;     "The child is a woman, the book may close over,     For all the lessons are said."     I wait for my story - the birds cannot sing it,     Not one, as he sits on the tree;     The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it!     Such as I wish it to be.