It is bitter and sweet, during the Winter nights, To listen, by the quivering and smoking hearth-log, To the memories withdrawn that ascend in slow flights On the carillons whose music sings out through the fog.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...TO DISRAELI ON CONSERVATISM by MARIANNE MOORE TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE MEMORY OF MARTHA by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR SONNET: ON A FAMILY PICTURE by THOMAS EDWARDS CORTEGE FOR ROSENBLOOM by WALLACE STEVENS THE WORLD (1) by HENRY VAUGHAN |