ILLNESS

I lie with aching head

In my hot imprisoning bed

With a splutter, cough, and pain.

I am alone,

I am left myself to mend,

In the scenery to blend,

And nobody hears my silent stifled groans.

And the ceaseless stream of time

Flows its uncouth course sublime,

And the lives of others peacefully exist

But time for me means naught

In a cell of rambling thought

And a hope that soon this sickness shall desist.