The church-bells were ringing; the Devil sat singing,
On the stump of a rotting old tree:
"Oh, faith, it grows cold, and the creeds, they grow old,
And the world is nigh ready for me."
The bells went on ringing; a spirit came singing,
And smiled as he crumbled the tree:
"Your wood does but perish, new seedlings to cherish,
And the world is to live yet, for thee."
To hear the lark sing, we must be at heaven's gate with the lark.
Selected.
