Now this morning I told my Lord of last night’s dream. And I said to him, “My dear Lord, last night as you slept, I dreamt. And in this dream I saw the fruits all rotting upon the vines. And the grass beneath my feet writhed with the products of this putrefaction. And the harvest had been lost, and the summer had gone, and I was all alone, and all that was to come was the barrenness of this new and endless winter. And that was the full extent of the dream. A dream of wistful regret, of the pleasures of melancholy, of the necessity of death and decay.”