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 ward is! what a rug!
And who’s that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What’s inside that jug?
“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 crimson slaughter.
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.
