Broadcast they shed a sweet perfume.
But while I look there comes a haze,
Slow rising with the setting sun,
Resting upon the fields of maize,
Like hood upon the passing nun,
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Who hears the solemn vesper bell,
That to the ivied chapel calls,
Wending her steps along the dell,
To kneel within those hallowed walls.
In years long gone, without a shock,
I stood where Alpine thunders roll;
Longer the bells of Languedoc
Shall find an echo in my soul.
A. L. H.