Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But...
The prose works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Page 370
by Henry Wadsworth [prose] Longfellow - 1861
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