Nine PM

it is addressed thusly:
An ode
it reads:
The bells! May I be the one that tells
Of their endless sport - is this Heaven's court?
And early too, these driving swells
I hear now their glad report
Of what! They spake no words aright
But in sound capered and danced around
Their peals erupting in the night
The street's catcalls are all but drowned
Drowned by iron, brass - a joyful mass?
But we brave, await still in the grave
For our master to sit up at last
And make bright heaven a cave.

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