Against the sky of Clover’s Dale
a ruined steeple tall.
No rain, it seem, may strike the ground
Within its roofless walls.
No preacher dwell within its bounds.
No other kirks abide.
& in this town of Clovers fell
no images reside.
All smilingly the streets they stride,
bell’s-tower see they not.
No words do speak of God his Keep,
& time seems long forgot