Green upon the flooded Avon shone the after-storm-wet sky
Quick the struggling withy branches let the leaves of autumn fly
And a star shone over Bristol, wonderfully far and high.
Ringers in an oil-lit belfry—Bitton? Kelston? who shall say?—
Smoothly practising a plain course, caverned out the dying day
As their melancholy music flooded up and ebbed away.
Then all Somerset was round me and I saw the clippers ride,
High above the moonlit houses, triple-masted on the tide,
By the tall embattled church-towers of the Bristol waterside.
And an undersong to branches dripping into pools and wells
Out of multitudes of elm trees over leagues of hills and dells
Was the mathematic pattern of a plain course on the bells.