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who visits me in a hospital
Like a fleet with bellying sails,
Like the great bulk of a sea-cliff with the staccato bark
of waves about it,
Like the tart tang of the sea breeze
Are you;
Filling the little room where I lie straitly on a white
island between pain and pain.
This poem is in the public domain.
You are turned wraith. Your supple, flitting hands, As formless as the night wind’s moan, Beckon across the years, and your heart’s pain Fades surely as a stainèd stone. And yet you will not let me rest, crying And calling down the night to me A thing that when your body moved and glowed, Living, you could not make me see. Lean down your homely, mist-encircled head Close, close above my human ear, And tell me what of pain among the dead— Tell me, and I will try to hear.