Robert William Service (Роберт Уильям Сервис)

Gangrene

So often in the mid of night
I wake me in my bed
With utter panic of affright
To find my feet are dead;
And pace the floor to easy my pain
And make them live again.

The folks at home are so discreet;
They see me walk and walk
To keep the blood-flow in my feet,
And though they never talk
I've heard them whisper: 'Mother may
Have them cut off some day.'

Cut off my feet! I'd rather die...
And yet the years of pain,
When in the darkness I will lie
And pray to God in vain,
Thinking in agony: Oh why
Can doctors not annul our breath
In honourable death?

1. The Rhyme of the Remittance Man
2. My Ancestors
3. The Lure of Little Voices
4. Bessie's Boil
5. Wrestling Match

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1809

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