Fever Poem VII by Knut Hamsun
Now howls the autumnal wind
like a rain soaked dog against my
Within my blood there stirs a frost
colder than the winds outside.
It unfolds within me
And reeks of poisonous blossoms.
The odour seeps out into the weather
from my nostrils.
It blooms in the garden of Hate.
It boils, it boils. I try
to no avail to fall into slumber,
I hear the flag line eternally
chattering and chattering against the
It staggers by doors, sneaks
on its toes, steps along the passage,
My pulse beating in barks
like a baying hellhound.
It boils, it boils, it boils.