When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui, And from the all-encircling horizon Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;
When the earth is changed into a humid dungeon, In which Hope like a bat Goes beating the walls with her timid wings And knocking her head against the rotten ceiling;
When the rain stretching out its endless train Imitates the bars of a vast prison And a silent horde of loathsome spiders Comes to spin their webs in the depths of our brains,
Вдруг грянет зычный хор колоколов огромных, И страшен бешеный размах колоколов: То - сонмы грешных душ, погибших и бездомных, Возносят до небес неукротимый рев.
Тогда без музыки, как траурные дроги, Безмолвно шествуют Надежды в вечный мрак, И призрак Ужаса, и царственный и строгий, Склонясь на череп мой, колеблет черный стяг.
— And without drums or music, long hearses Pass by slowly in my soul; Hope, vanquished, Weeps, and atrocious, despotic Anguish On my bowed skull plants her black flag.