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. 12. To Me at My Fifth-Floor Window
2. In Hospital. 22. Pastoral
3. In Hospital. 12. Etching
4. Echoes. 44. If It Should Come to Be
5. Echoes. 21. We Flash across the Level

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