Explore "The Old Bell" by Annie Fellows Johnston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE vines have grown so thick and twined so strong, / With clinging hold, about the bell that swings / In the old tower, that now it never rings.
No one has heard its voice for seasons long.
Sit by me on the broken belfry stair, / And I will tell the simple tale to you / Of those whose graves through yonder arch you view, / Scattered about the churchyard, here and there.
Ah me! How closely memory's tendrils twine / About the heart, and choke the words that spring.
It only throbs, the touch half-answering, / Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.