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.

Chosen by Alistair Stewart.