My arms have mutinied against me--brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours. Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease. I can't read. There: it's no use. Take your book. A short life and a merry one, my buck! We said we'd hate to grow dead old. But now, Not to live old seems awful: not to renew My boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting, Shooting and hunting,--all the arts of hurting! --Well, that's what I learnt. That, and making money. Your fifty years in store seem none too many; But I've five minutes. God! For just two years To help myself to this good air of yours! One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long? Spring air would find its own way to my lung, And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. Yes, there's the orderly. He'll change the sheets When I'm lugged out, oh, couldn't I do that? Here in this coffin of a bed, I've thought I'd like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,-- And ask no nights off when the bustle's over, For I'd enjoy the dirt; who's prejudiced Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,-- Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn? Dear dust,--in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan! I'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as Town; Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? A flea would do. If one chap wasn't bloody, Or went stone-cold, I'd find another body. Which I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours. I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours. You'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest, And climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind. I think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weaned To do without what blood remained me from my wound. 5th December 1917. Disabled He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, --In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands, All of them touch him like some queer disease.