Ring out again that faltering strain,
Cease not so soon,
Sweet peal that brought to me the thought
Of some deep shadowed English lane
Across the blue lagoon.

The water street where oarsmen meet
And shout ahead,
The glowing quay, all noise and glee,
Seemed hallowed as when angels’ feet
Touched Jacob’s stony bed.

On pearly dome and princely home
Day’s glory dies:
Once more the bells’ low murmur tells
That faith is not a line of foam
Nor life a bridge of sighs.