From the shaken tower A flock of bells take flight And go with the hour. - Alice Meynell

[T]here is nothing so exacting, so difficult, so various, as the consistency of a complete theory, nothing so overwhelming to a slothful student.

But, visiting Sea, your love doth press And reach in further than you know, And fills all these, and when you go,
There's loneliness in loneliness.

With mimicry, with praises, with echoes, or with answers, the poets have all but outsung the bells. The inarticulate bell has found too much interpretation, too many rhymes professing to close with her inaccessible utterance, and to agree with her remote tongue. The bell, like the bird, is a musician pestered with literature.