THE BELLS OF ST ANNE.
Now from their turrets gray and old,
Where call the swallow in the gloom,
The tender bell of eventide
Float out across the night’s perfume;
The music from their throbbing throats
Stirs the shadows like a flame,
And all the drowsing world grows glad
With love for holy one they name;
"Saint Anne!" their mellow voices cry:
" Saint Anne!"" The Good Saint Anne""
""Saint Anne!"
The far dim stretch of meadow grass
Is all a- glimmer with the dew;
Its shining drops fall as tears
When slips the evening zephyr through.
From out some mesh of soft brown blades,
A last, late thrush pipes low and sweet;
And once again the faithful bells
Their sacred melody repeat:
" Saint Anne" they murmur in reply:
"Saint Anne!"—" The Good Saint Anne!"
" Saint Anne!"
Along the stream’s winding length
The tide is running fleet and white;
It drowns the reeds along the course,
And hides the rocky bar from sight;
Vague sadness freights the misty air;
Night settles like a thing of woe;
And in their watch-tower high and still
The bells are swaying soft and slow:
" Saint Anne!"—the faint notes break and die;
" Saint Anne!" " The Good Saint Anne!"
" Saint Anne!’’….
Anonymous.
Compiled by Fr. Nascimento Mascarehnas, Vasco da Gama 1-08-2004
A Happy Feast of St. Anne to one and
all.
