Poetry
Sanatorium
1,M used to it now, the high road on the down That leads me to her, and those gleaming walls Whiter than moonlight, of that moon-white block Where night and day the vigil never ends That keeps white death at bay. I know the scents Of every step. Wild ffirze upon the hill, Resin of pine, late roses in the hedge, And lavender's grey dew outside her door.
The hospital smell, lysol and iodine, Redolent of the sea, the corridor Open to night, sterile, electric, cold.
I tiptoe in and knock at 44, Knowing how she awaits, how she will turn, And with what brightness stay me. All is gone — Scents, memory, the frost that quickens us To each. The knowledge that we dare Not give to words. The end we both foresee, And put off with a gesture. Tell me not, Cold stars, that visit us, the night is long, And that this warmth we clasp shall be the last, Nor bid me yet to such a high eclipse, That she and I and all we thought were young, Fade out with us, leaving the haunted dark To solitude, and silence, and those shades-- Ghosts that deceived us with futurity.
It N. D. WILSON.
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