Conscious

    His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. His eyes come open with a pull of will, Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head. A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . . How smooth the floor of the ward¹ is！ what a rug！ And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight？ Why are they laughing？ What's inside that jug²？ "Nurse！ Doctor！" "Yes； all right, all right."

    But sudden dusk bewilders all the air —— There seems no time to want a drink of water. Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere Music and roses burnt through crimson³ slaughter⁴. Cold； cold； he's cold； and yet so hot： And there's no light to see the voices by ——No time to dream, and ask —— he knows not what.