It is bitter and sweet on winter nightsTo listen by the fire that smokes and palpitates,To distant souvenirs that rise up slowlyAt the sound of the chimes that sing in the fog.
Happy is the bell which in spite of ageIs vigilant and healthy, and with lusty throatFaithfully sounds its religious call,Like an old soldier watching from his tent!
I, my soul is flawed, and when, a prey to ennui,She wishes to fill the cold night air with her songs,It often happens that her weakened voice
Resembles the death rattle of a wounded man,Forgotten beneath a heap of dead, by a lake of blood,Who dies without moving, striving desperately.
