Weird Tales/Volume 3/Issue 1/The Cataleptic
THE CATALEPTIC
By Charles Layng
Down the road there comes a tombstone,
Restless on Saint Swithin's night;
White and ghastly in the shadows,
Gleaming bleakly in the light.
Passing by, I chanced to meet it,
Looked into its eyes of flame,
Then I paused with horror stricken,
For on its face it bore my name.
Horrified, I wandered homeward,
Frightened, palsied, groaning loud,
While my limbs could scarce support me
Agonized, I donned a shroud.
Then a casket rose before me,
Finely wrought in bronze and gold,
It was lovely, for a coffin,
But its sides were dewed with mold.
Haltingly I clambered in it,
Into my unearthly bed,
How vile the smell of funeral lilies,
As they clustered round my head.
Lump by lump, the clods are falling,
Dimmer, dimmer grows the light,
A trumpet blast! Oh, sound appalling,
I am dead, and it is night.