Page:Von Heidenstam - Sweden's laureate, selected poems of Verner von Heidenstam (1919).djvu/114

And ran until she reached the steeple door.
There she stepped in, afraid she might be caught
Running bare-footed on a Sabbath day.
In the dark steeple, under the round bell,
She, young and sunburnt, held her leaf array.

She listened long; at last, when no one came,
Quickly around her neck the wreath she threw
And climbed the steep rungs higher, higher yet,
Until the floor had vanished from her view.

Dull in the wood-work whined the eddying draught.
With bended foot and practiced hand she stood
Upon the rungs as upon tight-stretched cords
And held on steadfastly with resolute mood.
Through loop-holes she could see the market-place,
But all was dark beneath her in the tower.
At every step the bell became more large,
And men grew smaller on the street below her.
Breathless and flushed and warm she reached the bell;
Like to a loved and trusted friend she found it,
And when she smote her knuckles on its rim,
Whispered vibrations fluttered all around it.
But higher still the narrow steps led on.
Boldly at last with lifted hands she swung
Up to the narrow beam. The bell below,
Dumbly upon its bright-worn axis hung.
One arm across the beam, she twined her chain
Of maple leaves around the brazen crest,