Είναι ενδιαφέρον ότι ο Φρανκ έγραψε όλα τα σημαντικά έργα του τα τελευταία δέκα χρόνια της ζωής του ... ο μύθος το φέρει ότι την δημιουργικότητα του πυροδότησε ο έρωτας για κάποια νεαρή μαθήτρια του... Το υπόψη έργο είναι πραγματικά υπέροχο με αβίαστα εξελισσόμενη μελωδική ροή, με σαφείς επιρροές από τον Μπραμς, ενώ πράγματι σαν συμφωνικό ποίημα κατορθώνει να αποδώσει έξοχα με μουσικά μέσα τις ''εικόνες'' του ποιήματος του Ουγκώ, προσομοιάζοντας ωστόσο, ως σωστά επισημάνθηκε, σε πιάνο κονσέρτο, αφού η νύχτα και το ζοφερό κλίμα περιγράφονται από την ορχήστρα, ενώ ο χορός των δαιμόνων αλλά και τα εναλλασσόμενα συναισθήματα του ποιητή από το πιάνο...
Ο δίσκος της bis που αναφέρεται στο αρχικό ποστ είναι πραγματικό απόκτημα περιέχοντας εξαιρετικές εκτελέσεις και των άλλων δύο αριστουργημάτων του Φρανκ, ιδιαίτερα του prelude, chorale and fugue ...
Ας βάλω και το ποίημα :
Walls, town
And port,
Refuge
From death,
Gray sea
Where breaks
The wind
All sleeps.
In the plain
Is born a sound.
It is the breathing
Of the night.
It roars
Like a soul
That a flame
Always follows.
The higher voice
Seems a shiver.
Of a leaping dwarf
it is the gallop.
He flees, he springs,
Then in cadence
On one foot dances
At the end of a stream.
The murmur approaches,
The echo repeats it.
It is like the bell
Of a cursed convent,
Like a crowd sound
That thunders and rolls
And sometimes crumbles
And sometimes swells..
God! The sepulchral voice
Of the Djinns!
What noise they make!
We flee beneath the spiral
Of the deep staircase!
My lamp has already died,
And the shadow of the ramp,
Which crawls along the wall,
Ascends to the ceiling.
The swarm of Djinns is passing,
And it whirls, hissing.
Old conifers, stirred by their flight,
Crackle like burning pine.
Their herd, heavy and swift,
Flying in the vacant space,
Seems a livid cloud
With lightning flashing at its edge.
They are so near! We keep closed
This room where we defy them.
What noise outside! Hideous army
Of vampires and dragons!
The beam of the loosened ceiling
Sags like soaked grass,
And the rusted old door
Trembles, unseating its hinges.
Cries from hell! voice that roars and weeps!
The horrible swarm, driven by the north wind,
Doubtless, or heaven! assails my home.
The wall bends under the black battalion.
The house cries out and staggers tilted,
And one could say that, ripped from the soil,
Just as it chases a dried-out leaf,
The wind rolls it along in a vortex!
Prophet! If your hand spares me
From these impure demons of the night,
I would go prostrate my bald forehead
Before your sacred incense burners!
Make their breath of sparks
Die on these faithful doors,
And make the talons of their wings
Scrape and cry in vain at these black windows!
They have passed! Their cohort
Takes flight and flees, and their feet
Stop beating on my door
With their multiple blows.
The air is filled with a sound of chains,
And in the nearby forests
All the great oaks tremble
Bent beneath their fiery flight!
The beating of their wings
Fades in the distance.
So vague in the plains,
So faint, that you believe
You hear the grasshopper
Cry with a shrill voice
Or the hail crackling
On the lead of an old roof.
Strange syllables
Still approach us.
Thus, of the Arabs,
When the horn sounds,
A chant on the shore
Rises up in moments,
And the dreaming child
Has dreams of gold.
The funerary Djinns,
Files of death,
In the shadows
Hurry their step;
Their swarm rumbles;
Thus, deep,
Murmurs a wave
That no one sees.
This vague sound
That falls asleep,
It is the wave
On the edge;
It is the moan,
Almost extinct,
Of a saint
For a death.
One doubts
The night
I listen: -
All flees,
All fades;
The space
Erases
The sound.