Joy-Bells

 Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells 
To the green-vista’d gladness of the past 
That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells 
To a joyful chime; but let it be the last.
 

What means this metal in windy belfries hung
When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells 
Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue 
Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells.
 

Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim 
That ‘if our Lord returned He’d fight for us.
’
So let our bells and bishops do the same, 
Shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus.

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