Across the bridge, where in the morning blow <br />The wrinkled tide turns homeward, and is fain <br />Homeward to drag the balck sea-goer's chain, <br />And the long yards by Dowgate dipping low; <br />Across dispeopled ways, patient and slow, <br />Saint Magnus and Saint Dunstan call in vain: <br />>From Wren's forgotten belfries, in the rain, <br />Down the blank wharves the dropping octaves go. <br /> <br />Forbid not these! Tho' no man heed, they shower <br />A subtle beauty on the empty hour, <br />>From all their dark throats aching and outblown; <br />Aye in the prayerless places welcome most, <br />Like the last gull that up a naked coast <br />Deploys her white and steady wing, alone.<br /><br />Louise Imogen Guiney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunday-chimes-in-the-city/
