For I have no breath in this House of Death
And I mutter with lips alone...
So, my tale it is told of the dread and cold
In the depths of this livid gloom;
And I motionless lie, as I strive to die,
As I rot in my narrow room,
For I am not dead whilst my fearful head
The foul, fat worms forsake;
But, when that is gone, then my dream it is done,
And I sleep at last, never to wake...