Ballades & Rondeaux

Ballade of the Sick.

Can these be men, that lie so still, so white? Whose hopeless eyes yearn things they cannot say? Who scarce can part the daytime from the night Save that the night drags heavier than the day? Have these a listening God, to whom they pray? God hears not such, nor cares, right well know I, For nameless things I learn through long delay, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. I learn of life-in-death; I learn the blight Of seeing my soul and body slow decay, Hemmed in with white-walled nothingness. The flight Of vagrant flies, the sunlight’s sluggish way Of crawling on--yes, even the shadows gray Help tease the laggard moments loathly by. Since great are none, small things my pain allay On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight. That deathmask yonder--carrion mass of clay-- Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay. The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay, Will go next sennight--how these swart folk die! Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.