It is bitter and sweet, during the Winter nights, To listen, by the quivering and smoking hearth-log, To the memories withdrawn that ascend in slow flights On the carillons whose music sings out through the fog. Thrice fortunate the bell with a vigorous throat That, in spite of old age, alert and still robust, Flings faithfully the challenge of its religious note, Like a veteran campaigner keeping watch at his post. As for me, my soul's cracked, and when in gloom it longs To people the chill air of the night with its songs, It often befalls me that its enfeebled call Seems a wounded man's rattle, forgotten by all By a lake of blood under a vast heap of dead, And who dies, without moving, in immense throes of dread! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A CARRIER WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON MARCO BOZZARIS by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK TO A FLOWER by CORRINNE M. ARTHUR THE MARCH BEE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SONNETS OF SEVEN CITIES: NEW YORK by BERTON BRALEY MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE THRESHOLD by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH COUNT THE LAWIN' by ROBERT BURNS EXTEMPORE VERSES ON A TRIAL OF SKILL BETWEEN MSSRS. FIGG AND SUTTON by JOHN BYROM |