| Placid is the toll of the iron bell
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| As its resonance washes against the hills
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| And settles into the dry beds and knotted groves
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| Of the sun-parched valley at rest below
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| The morning rises guardedly
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| Over a stirring countryside
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| Illuminating the far off sea
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| A waxen shield, horizon’s protector
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| As I stagger up from the sun-bleached tiles
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| Where in night’s revelry I laid my head
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| I lean against a rusting lattice and compose my thoughts
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| My waking eyes held spellbound by a waxen sea
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| I raise my hands to the sea beyond
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| Intoxicated by the winds that whip up from her fair shores
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| I’ll mind any road, be they tranquil or pestilent
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| Through knotted, olden grove or stone-strewn ruin
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| To wander her fair shores
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| To be adrift in the azure
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| To covet the sea breeze
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| To daydream upon her dunes
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| All in due time
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| All in due time
|
| All in due time
|
| Placid is the toll of the iron bell
|
| As its resonance washes against the hills |