How Smartly The Quarters Of The Hour March By That The Jack-O'-Clock Never Forgets; Ding-Dong; And Before I Have Traced A Cusp'S Eye, Or Got The True Twist Of The Ogee Over, A Double Ding-Dong Ricochetts. Just So Did He Clang Here Before I Came, And So Will He Clang When I'm Gone Through The Minster'S Cavernous Hollows - The Same Tale Of Hours Never More To Be Will He Deliver To The Speechless Midnight And Dawn! I Grow To Conceive It A Call To Ghosts, Whose Mould Lies Below And Around. Yes; The Next "Come, Come," Draws Them Out From Their Posts, And They Gather, And One Shade Appears, And Another, As The Eve-Damps Creep From The Ground. See - A Courtenay Stands By His Quatre-Foiled Tomb, And A Duke And His Duchess Near; And One Sir Edmund In Columned Gloom, And A Saxon King By The Presbytery Chamber; And Shapes Unknown In The Rear. Maybe They Have Met For A Parle On Some Plan To Better Ail-Stricken Mankind; I Catch Their Cheepings, Though Thinner Than The Overhead Creak Of A Passager'S Pinion When Leaving Land Behind. Or Perhaps They Speak To The Yet Unborn, And Caution Them Not To Come To A World So Ancient And Trouble-Torn, Of Foiled Intents, Vain Lovingkindness, And Ardours Chilled And Numb. They Waste To Fog As I Stir And Stand, And Move From The Arched Recess, And Pick Up The Drawing That Slipped From My Hand, And Feel For The Pencil I Dropped In The Cranny In A Moment'S Forgetfulness.