Wie langsam kriechet sie dahin

How slowly Time, the frightful snail,
Crawls to the corner that I lie in;
While I, who cannot move at all,
Watch from the place that I must die in.

Here in my darkened cell no hope
Enters and breaks the gloom asunder;
I know I shall not leave this room
Except for one that's six feet under.

Perhaps I have been dead some time;
Perhaps my bright and whirling fancies
Are only ghosts that, in my head,
Keep up their wild, nocturnal dances.

They well might be a pack of ghosts,
Some sort of pagan gods or devils;
And a dead poet's skull is just
The place they'd choose to have their revels!

Those orgies, furious and sweet,
Come suddenly, without a warning . . .
And then the poet's cold, dead hand
Attempts to write them down next morning.