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. In Hospital. 8. Staff-Nurse: Old Style
2. In Hospital. 26. Anterotics
3. In the Dials
4. Echoes. 14. The Wan Sun Westers, Faint and Slow
5. Echoes. 20. The Surges Gushed and Sounded

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