An Odour of Mould
I came across the following, unattributed passage in the book I'm reading:
My bed and pillow are cold,
My heart is faint with dread.
The air hath an odour of mould.
I dream I lie with the dead,
I cannot move,
O, come to me, love,
Or else I am dead.
I chuckled when I read this, because it reminded me of my twelfth grade English teacher, who one day told the entire class to go home, lie perfectly still and try to imagine we were dead. I thought it was an odd thing to say then, and it still seems strange today.
Interestingly, the only reference to the verse I can find on the web is a page in Russian, so I offer a free horseburger to the first person who can figure out who wrote it.
My bed and pillow are cold,
My heart is faint with dread.
The air hath an odour of mould.
I dream I lie with the dead,
I cannot move,
O, come to me, love,
Or else I am dead.
I chuckled when I read this, because it reminded me of my twelfth grade English teacher, who one day told the entire class to go home, lie perfectly still and try to imagine we were dead. I thought it was an odd thing to say then, and it still seems strange today.
Interestingly, the only reference to the verse I can find on the web is a page in Russian, so I offer a free horseburger to the first person who can figure out who wrote it.
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