And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
whistled, and beat their wings
and crawled head downward down a blackened wall
and upside down in air were towers
tolling reminiscent bells, that kept he hours,
and voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home
It has no windows, and the door swings,
dry bones can harm no one."
- excerpt, The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot