The fishers black of that black plague, They are the lost immeasurably, Among the knells, the distance vague, The yonder of those endless plains That stretch more far than eye can see: And the damp autumn midnight rains Into their souls' monotony.
"Poems of Emile Verhaeren"
Emile Verhaeren
In the North of England, are yet rung nine knells for a man, six for a woman, and three for a child.
"Old Church Lore"
William Andrews
And it was he who spoke to Wade, in dreadful tones, like knells.
"The Mysterious Rider"
Zane Grey