'Tis bitter-sweet, when winter nights are long, To watch, beside the flames which smoke and twist, The distant memories which slowly throng, Brought by the chime soft-singing through the mist.
Happy the sturdy, vigorous-throated bell Who, spite of age alert and confident, Cries hourly, like some strong old sentinel Flinging the ready challenge from his tent.
For me, my soul is cracked; when sick with care, She strives with songs to people the cold air It happens often that her feeble cries
Mock the harsh rattle of a man who lies Wounded, forgotten, 'neath a mound of slain And dies, pinned fast, writhing his limbs in pain.
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