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.