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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh


In Fever


I am withered and wizened and stiff and old,
Sick and hot, and I sigh for the cold,
For the days when all of the world was fresh
And all of me, my soul and my flesh,--
When my lips and my mouth were cool as the dew,
And my eyes, now worn, as clear, as new.
I wish I were lying out in the rain
In the wood at home, that the waters might strain
And stream through me --  But here I lie
In a clammy room, and my soul is dry,
And shall never be fresh again till I die.



Thomas MacDonagh


Thomas MacDonagh's other poems:
  1. Barbara: Born 24th March, 1915
  2. I Heard a Music Sweet To-day
  3. The Rain It Raineth
  4. To a Wise Man
  5. In an Island


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