<h2> Conscious </h2>
<p>His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.<br/>
His eyes come open with a pull of will,<br/>
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.<br/>
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .<br/>
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!<br/>
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?<br/>
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?<br/>
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."<br/>
<br/>
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air—<br/>
There seems no time to want a drink of water.<br/>
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere<br/>
Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.<br/>
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:<br/>
And there's no light to see the voices by—<br/>
No time to dream, and ask—he knows not what.<br/></p>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"></SPAN></p>
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