Tall the abbey tower,
Now with no bell to call
Through a perfect arch to nowhere,
But a crumbling abbey wall.

Wind whispers lonely evensong
To high descant of a lark,
As it soars above the oaken cross,
Oh enduring, Holy mark.

Ageless by that river,
Time's ceaseless, silent flow,
Forsaken paths the ancients trod,
Ten centuries ago.