Carl Spitteler (1845–1924)

BELL, my silver-tonguèd bell,

Oh, thy secret prithee tell:

Dwellst where bats and night-owls roam,

Lonely in thy mouldered home;

Tell me, whence thy solemn ring?

And who taught thee, pray, to sing?

When in gloomy shaft I lay,

Night of hell I saw alway.

In this tower high and free

Through the whirling winds I see

Human sorrow graced by soul.

Dost thou wonder why I toll?