The Cracked Bell, poem of Charles Baudelaire translated by Emery L. Campbell

How bitter-sweet it is, through winter's numbing nights,
to listen as the dancing, smoky fire evokes
a vision from the distant past whose muted flights
ascend through swirling fog on tolling vesper's strokes.

Contented are the chimes with energetic throats,
their voice robust in spite of age, alert and hard,
that still pour forth unswerving, conscientious notes,
much like a grizzled sentry at his post on guard.

But as for me, my soul is flawed. When, sick with care,
it strives to fill with mournful plaints the cold night air,
too often nothing but a weakened throat is there,

much like the futile gasps of wounded in despair
left piled one on the other by a lake of gore
who lie in wretched torment till they strain no more.

Translated from the French of "La cloche fêlée" by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)