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
And 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