Little Poems in Prose

XXII THE TWILIGHT OF EVEN THE day falls; a great relief comes over the poor minds that are wearied with the day’s toil, and their thoughts now take on the tender and uncertain colours of the twilight. Nevertheless, from the level of the moun- tain to my balcony across the transparent clouds of even there comes a great howl, com- posed of many discordant cries, which space transforms into a mournful harmony like that of a rising tide or of a tempest which awakes. Who are these unfortunate ones to whom evening brings no calm, and who, like the owls, take the coming of the night for the sig- nal of their sabbath? This sinister ululation comes to us from the black asylum perched upon the mountain side, as I invoke the eve- ning, smoking and contemplating the repose of the great valley dotted with houses whose every window says “Here now is peace; here is domestic joy.” When the wind blows from above, there can I cradle my thought, that wonders at this imitation of Hell’s harmony.