And All The Air Is Filled With

For Bells Are The Voice Of The Church; They Have Tones That Touch And Search The Hearts Of Young And Old.

Sweet Is The Air With The Budding Haws, And The Valley Stretching For Miles Below Is White With Blossoming Cherry-trees, As If Just Covered With Lighted Snow.

No One Is So Accursed By Fate, No One So Utterly Desolate, But Some Heart Though Unknown Responds Unto His Own.

Life Is The Gift Of God, And Is Divine.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.