Ah! The old bells it was
Their fault
That I walked through the frost
Of winter that
Hung down the trees with
Their disheveled hair unkempt
And let down:
Like girls without having done
Their make-up:
I passed through the frost breathing
Out mist like a forge
Under the trees with hair
Let down
I passed, I walked, I suffered:
Ah! The old bells it was
Of the cathedral, their fault.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem