Wantage Bells

(Intro)
And now I live in Wantage, which is a redbrick town, an old town at the foot of the Berkshire Downs, and where we have eight bells in the parish church, and the Anglican order Wantage Sisters live in the town in various buildings, and this poem is meant to be like the sound of eight bells on a Sunday morning

(Poem)
Now with the bells through the apple-bloom
Sunday-ly sounding
And the prayers of the nuns in their chapel gloom
Where the brook flows
Brick walls of rose
Send on the motionless meadow the bell notes rebounding

Wall-flowers are bright in their beds
And their scent all pervading
Withered are primroses' heads
And the hyacinth fading
But flowers by the score
Multitudes more
Weed flowers and seed flowers and mead flowers our paths are invading

Where are the words to express
Such a reckless bestowing?
The voices of birds utter less
Than the thanks we are owing
Bell notes alone
Ring praise of their own
As clear as the weed-waving brook and as evenly flowing