I have seen, O desolate one, the voice has its tower,
The voice also, builded at secret cost.
Its temple of precious tissue. Not silent, then.
Forever. Casting silence in your hour.

There marble boys are leant from the light throat
Thick locks that hang with dew, and eyes dew-lashed,
Dazzled with morning, angels of the wind,
With ear a-point to the enchanted note.

And these at length shall tip the hanging bell.
And first the sound must gather in deep bronze.
Till rarer than ice, purer than a bubble of gold,
It fill the sky, to beat on an airy shell.

This poem originally ran in the July 7, 1926 issue of the magazine.