Bells were buried in Belgium
During the first World War.
Now they ring like crystal
Above a New York town.

This is a land of bees,
Of chocolate filled with honey,
A land of glass and photographs
With sites of higher learning.

The keyboard seems to play itself;
There is no carilloneur,
His bench is empty
But the bells don't care.

The bells ring on to sing her name
In every major key.
The phonemes of Christine
Sanctify their tone.
 

- David S. Warren 1930-2000
(my dad)