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Mendip Hills over Wells HOW grand beneath the feet that company Of steep gray roofs and clustering pinnacles Of the massy fane, brooding in majesty Above the town that spreads among the dells! Hark! the deep clock unrolls its voice of power; And sweetly mellowed sound of chiming bells Calling to prayer from out the central tower Over the thickly timbered hollow dwells. Meet worship-place for such a glorious stretch Of sunny prospect, for these mighty hills, And that dark solemn Tor, 1 and all that reach Of bright-green meadows, laced with silver rills, Bounded by ranges of pale blue, that rise To where white strips of sea are traced upon the skies. Henry Alford's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1204 |
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