There is a hushed suspension on the air,

And the slow bells summon unhurried feet

To dim reclosures kept for praise and prayer.

Drawn blinds have shut the merchant's wares away,

Where two by two the goodly folk go by,

Out of their toilsome days into this day

Of special airs beneath a special sky.

A little while, and all at last are gone;

The streets are stilled of passers up and down;

Only the pealing bells toll on and on,—

Till these, too, cease, and all the silent Town

In street, and roof, and spire, and grassy sod,

Lies steeped in sunlight, smiling back at God.

III

IN APRIL

The way of Spring with little steepled towns

Is such a shy, transforming sorcery

Of special lights and swift, incredible crowns,

That grave men wonder how such things may be.

No friendly spire, no daily-trodden way[21]

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