In forest deep, where winds once blew,
Forgotten to all but a few,
Upon a withered tower’s spire,
There lies a giant bell of iron.
There is no sound within its sight,
No song of birds, no howl of night,
And even if you struck it well,
No toll would echo from the bell.
They say that ‘neath the loamy grass
One still awaits, adorned in brass,
For presence of the wooded King,
And only then, the bell shall ring.
Until that day is understood,
The quiet spreads throughout the wood,
The pines may bend, the winds may swell,
but still remains the Silent Bell.