Ring out again, ye Bells of Battersea,
Over the seaward Thames while I sit here
Lamplit, with moistened eye and hungering ear,
Recalling thoughts of things once hoped to be—
Past now, forgotten almost; for to me
Those wild harmonies in the waves of air,
Changing yet still repeating, here or there,
Yet truly ordered, ring life's history.

And still I hear them lovingly, good bells,
Across the rushing river in the wind,
Fainting or rising as the tempest swells;
The river rushing like dark years behind
Chasing dark years gone by, and those sweet spells
High overhead with memories intertwined.