Over the scattered trees, over the sunbrowned meadow,
The bells wove their rhythm of delicate, proud, airborne music;
Fragments of lacework through the far-air falling,
Trails of tone going outward, loops and loud curves of sound
The bells threw a sabbath of peace against the shadow
Of a mid-century torn with war, with lust, with famine;
Borne from their Belgian coast, they shaped the
enclosing magic;
Sky blessing spread upon a wide Pacific ground.
Here as in days gone by, through centuries forgotten,
They sang through the sky to man, they wove the secret
Will of eternity, that passes to peace through strife.
Quivering from plain to peak, they shaped the heavenly
garments,
And, as in older lands, they moved; angelic footfalls
Going, but none knew how, apart from death to life.
