what's o'clock
187
FOLIE DE MINUIT
No word, no word, O Lord God!
Hanging above the shivering pillars
Like thunder over a brazen city.
Hanging above the shivering pillars
Like thunder over a brazen city.
Pity? Is there pity?
Does pity pour from the multiform points
Of snow crystals?
If the throats of the organ pipes
Are numb with cold,
Can the boldest bellows' blast
Melt their now dumb hosannas?
Does pity pour from the multiform points
Of snow crystals?
If the throats of the organ pipes
Are numb with cold,
Can the boldest bellows' blast
Melt their now dumb hosannas?
No word, august and brooding God!
No shrivelled spectre of an aching tone
Can pierce those banners
No shrivelled spectre of an aching tone
Can pierce those banners
