It was a church tower standing
Weakly in the wind, swaying
Meekly, yet commanding
Singing rather than praying
The tower was of gentle yellow hue
Facing the stinging freshness of the skies
Tracing its own unmitigated blue
Shadowy sharpness of spiral highs
We strolled a-past and saw the tower
Swinging its spire in happy dance
Singing of bricks that gave it power
Embracing us in Gothic trance
A painter painted the tower sway
And fainted, giving it away (to us)
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