Drawing Details in an Old Church

I hear the bell-rope sawing,
And the oil-less axle grind,
As I sit alone here drawing
What some Gothic brain designed;
And I catch the toll that follows
         From the lagging bell,
Ere it spreads to hills and hollows
         Where people dwell.

I ask not whom it tolls for,
Incurious who he be;
So, some morrow, when those knolls for
One unguessed, sound out for me,
A stranger, loitering under
         In nave or choir,
May think, too, 'Whose I wonder?'
         But not inquire.