cold, and, violently as I pounded on the door
of the Schonhutte, no one opened it. At last I thought of pounding on the
gutter-spout, which I did till I roused the landlord. But I had been at
least fifteen minutes in the street, and was fairly numbed. The landlord
was obliged to open the room and light my lamp, because I could not use
my fingers.

If I had been intoxicated, which I do not believe, the cold would have
sobered me, for what happened is as distinct as if it had occurred
yesterday.

I undressed, went to bed, and when I was roused by a strange burning
sensation in my throat I felt so weak that I could scarcely lift my arm.
There was a peculiar taste of blood in my mouth, and as I moved I touched
something moist. But my exhaustion was so great that I fell asleep again,
and the dream which followed was so delightful that I did not forget it.
Perhaps the distinctness of my recollection is due to my making it the
subject of a poem, which I still possess. It seemed as if I were lying in
an endless field of poppies, with the notes of music echoing around me.
Never did I have a more blissful vision.

The awakening was all the more terrible. Only a few hours could have
passed since I went to rest. Dawn was just appearing, and I rang for the
old maid-servant who waited on me. An hour later Geheimrath Baum stood
beside my bed.

The heavy tax made upon my physical powers by exposure to the night air
had caused a severe haemorrhage. The excellent physician who took charge
of my case said positively that my lungs were sound, and the attack was
due to the bursting of a blood-vessel. I was to avoid sitting upright in
bed, to receive no visitors, and have ice applied. I believed myself
destined to an early death, but the departure from life caused me no
fear; nay, I felt so weary that I desired nothing but eternal sleep. Only
I wanted to see my mother again.

Then let my end come!

I was in the mood to write, and either the day after the haemorrhage or
the next one I composed the following verses:

A field of poppies swaying to and fro,
Their blossoms scarlet as fresh blood,
I see, While o'er me, radiant in the noontide glow,
The sky, blue as corn-flowers, arches free.

Low music echoes through the breezes warm;
The violet lends the poppy her sweet breath;
The song of nightingales is heard, a swarm
Of butterflies flit hov'ring o'er the heath.

While thus I lie, wrappe