It’s bitter, yet sweet, on wintry nights, near to the fire that crackles and fumes, listening while, far-off, slow memories rise to echoing chimes that ring through the gloom. Lucky indeed, the loud-tongued bell still hale and hearty despite its age, repeating its pious call, true and well, like an old trooper in the sentry’s cage! My soul is flawed: when, at boredom’s sigh, it would fill the chill night air with its cry, it often happens that its voice, enfeebled, thickens like a wounded man’s death-rattle by a lake of blood, vast heaps of the dying, who ends, without moving, despite his trying.
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