Hark - at last the panels tremble!
What an enchanting, metallic sound this is!
What kind of underground thunderstorm
pounded against my eardrums?

All of a sudden it interrupted my fearful moaning,
I listened - counting, still, and almost  hopeful:
Eleven - twelve - indeed, the clock struck twelve;
That full sound came from the clock tower!

It is the big bell, the child of wind and air,
Its sound goes down to the deepest basement,
Makes its way through walls and tombs
And sings its tune into my lonesome grave.

I can imagine rooftops in warm sunlight,
In vernal sun, against a backdrop of ether blue skies;
Thin bands of smoke rising from chimneys,
Inviting everyone to leave the green meadows and come in.

Why are you scoffing me, tune of the bell, here in my grave,
Caller of the Lord's great dining room,
Reminding me, without my asking, that I am hungry
And cannot go to have my plain and silent meal?