Some say they hear the banshee's shriek,
Or tones that tell of cold and bleak;
But I hear in that ringing song,
A voice that rumbles, low and long.
I hear no ghastly, mournful knell;
I only hear the evening bell.
The stars are summoned from their sleep.
The web of night that held them deep
Unspreads itself, a silken cloak,
To guard the weary, sleeping folk,
Who, in their dreams, the echoes swell,
And still they hear the evening bell.
The winds arise, the heather sways,
Unending 'til the End of Days.
The minstrels hum sweet lullabies,
The faithful pray, then close their eyes.
Harsh, raucous noises all are quelled,
By music of the evening bell.
The crickets, too, are calm and still,
While echoes ring from glen to hill.
The kine cease lowing, darkness falls,
From country croft to castle walls;
Both meek and mighty bound in spell,
Enchanted by the evening bell.
The branches whisper to the leaves,
Whilst dewdrops shine on cottage eves.
The owl swoops 'neath starry skies,
His eyes all wide to prove he's wise.
But wiser, those who listen well,
That they might hear the evening bell.
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