The Echo of the Bells

She hears the footfalls of the bells
Sounding, sounding, sounding
Deep down the low and lonely dells.
She knows they’re calling her again;
The bells, obscuring and drowning
All other sounds, beckon. And then...

They’re gone. A droning echo sweeps
Across the prairie, whispering
Its doleful tones until it sleeps
For ever more. A silence reigns
And she is left alone and whispering
The sober knell of the bell’s refrain.

She strains her eyes to see the sounds
Her ears have heard, yet nothing
Can she see but prairie grass and ground
Still starving for the clouds to cry.
She prays for sight, for sound, for something
To wet her parched and thirsting eyes.

And as she turns to leave, a waft
Of wind comes by her greeting
And nodding golden grains—a draft
Of life, a memory of home.
She hears the bells again repeating
Come! Come! Come!