fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed.
eyes come open with a pull of will,
by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
a smooth floor the ward has! What a rug!
is that talking somewhere out of sight?
flies are creeping round the shiny jug . . .
Doctor!’—‘Yes, all right, all right.’
sudden evening muddles all the air—
seems no time to want a drink of water.
looks so far away. And here and there
and roses burst through crimson slaughter.
can’t remember where he saw blue sky.
blankets. Cold. He’s cold. And yet so hot.
there’s no light to see the voices by . . .
is no time to ask—he knows not what.