Ah, hear ye, the tolling of the bells,
amid all that's eerie, this at night she hears.
But they are empty, mere fustian sounds,
just the deserted spaces of her fears.
Behold, said I, one gloomy midsummer
she holds a knife in her feeble hand;
In solitude, she gazed at the heavens,
held by the eternity of the night.
But hear the bells, it's a fool's paradise
that her silly dreams reveal!