'Ring out again that faltering strain, Cease not so soon, Sweet peal that brought to me the thought Of some deep shadowed English lane Across the blue lagoon. The water street where oarsmen meet And shout ahead, The glowing quay, all noise and glee, Seemed hallowed as when angels' feet Touched Jacob's stony bed. On pearly dome and princely home Day's glory dies: Once more the bells' low murmur tells That faith is not a line of foam Nor life a bridge of sighs.'