The word is all: the bell and the wind-bird
clamour and sway so high, the hunted climber
dreams his voice, the lonely moss, his limbs,
are haters in darkness and the dirk in the heather.

The form is nothing: wrath in the unreal storm
eats but the air, terrifies with lights;
ghosts but menace; man soon forgets
the falling of the tower, and the tree-felling.

The only answer lances towards the unknown:
fear in the eyes, the wisdom of a seer
forcing true gods through imagined sources;
hell, in the dreaming heart, heard in the bell.