The big bronze bell was tolling
From the façade of St Peter’s
An incessant toll above death
88 clangs from its open mouth
The Angelus Bell rang out
For the years of Francis’ life
Over the sky of Rome
A clear celestial blue
The blue of the Virgin mother
Through which we see God
Men of the clergy on the right
Royals and politicians on the left
The chorus sings the Requiem
No melody can melt away
The broken world of sin
Nor wake the dead lying alone
In a wooden box on the cold stone
As the mourning clouds rolled in
On weary feet I walk the fallow field
Hearing ghosts from another time
The ploughboy’s labour filled tread
With horse drill long straight furrows
Women clad in sackcloth and calico
Scatter saved seeds on hungry soil
Then came the chill rain of spring
They kneel in sodden clinging clay
Thinning the frozen beet and turnip
Standing only for the Angelus bell
Giving thanks to the Almighty God
For what they did and did not have
End of golden summer came fast
We played in chaff at harvests end
The labourers washed the year away
With drink and music and silver coin
No mirror reflects the toil worn face
Or tears of acceptance of their lot
I leave the field of olden memories
And stumble back to the other side
Across the way the lonely bell tolls
With wisdom of past generations
Telling me that I should leave now
Go---go---go, the old ghosts echo
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.