THE vines have grown so thick and twined so strong,
With clinging hold, about the bell that swings
In the old tower, that now it never rings.
No one has heard its voice for seasons long.
Sit by me on the broken belfry stair,
And I will tell the simple tale to you
Of those whose graves through yonder arch you view,
Scattered about the churchyard, here and there.
Ah me! How closely memory's tendrils twine
About the heart, and choke the words that spring.
It only throbs, the touch half-answering,
Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.