Poem by William Ernest Henley

In Hospital. 2. Waiting

A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
   Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
   Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
   Scissors and lint and apothecary’s jars.

Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
   Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
   Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
   While at their ease two dressers do their chores.

One has a probe—it feels to me a crowbar.
   A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
   A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers.
   Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.

1. Echoes. 23. The Skies Are Strown with Stars
2. Echoes. 37. Or Ever the Knightly Years Were Gone
3. Rhymes and Rhythms. Epilogue
4. In Hospital. 7. Vigil
5. Attadale, West Highlands

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