Ringer's Ruin

The path to the belfry is a long hard ride,

But oh what wonders there reside.
Pursuing ropesight the vital first spark,
Where does the key to this mystery hide?

Then to the rolling Heaven itself I cried,
Asking, 'What hath destiny to guide
Her little children stumbling in the dark?'
And, 'A blind understanding!' Heaven replied.

Then one day all became plain,
Henceforth I would never be the same:
Ringing had become an open book,
All its secrets mine to claim.

Ah moon of my delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heaven is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look,
Through this same Garden after me - in vain!

Through reams of numbers did I recklessly plough,
With Diary and Diagrams I began to see how
The store of methods was almost endless -
Revelation complete there was no stopping now.

Here with a loaf of bread beside the Bough,
A flask of wine and a book of verse - and thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness -
And wilderness is paradise enow.

Such obsession of course soon goes,
The wisdom of ageing I suppose!
All the peals that I once rang,
In paper records now repose.

Alas, that Spring should vanish like the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence and wither flown again who knows!

But this love of Ringing will not die,
There is no escape, I know not why:
To take my leave just is no use,
We are inseparable you and I.

Then said another with a long-drawn sigh,
'My clay with long oblivion has gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I will recover by and bye.'

So bells continue to inspire,
Ringers to achievements higher,
Perfection will come we know not when,
In some far off Tower or Spire.

Ah Love! Could thou or I with Fate conspire,
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits - and then,
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

There is much of Ringing we'll never see,
And maybe times we'll disagree.
But leave the wise to wrangle, and with me,
The Quarrel of the Universe let be.

Lines in italics borrowed from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam.