When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid
On the spirit aching for the light
And when, embracing the horizon,
It pours on us a black day which is sadder than any night

When the earth is turned into a dripping dungeon
In which Hope, like a bat, flutters blindly
And bruises its timid wing and tender head
Against the walls and rotted ceilings

When the rain, stretching down its long streaks of water,
Imitates the bars of an enormous prison
And a silent throng of loathsome spiders come
And weave their webs inside our brains

Then suddenly, the bells swing angrily
And hurl their hideous uproar into the sky
Like a band of wandering spirits who wail relentlessly
And long hearses, without drums or music,
Move in a slow procession through my soul
And defeated Hope bursts into tears
And the fierce tyrant Anguish
Sets his black banner on my bowed head