Here, as I lie in this white cot,
The world seems as a dream remote –
The echo of a strident note,
Once heard, now half forgot.
In this dim room, sequestered, high,
Time does not beat with anvil ring;
The sand runs slow, untroubling
The hours as they go by.
I lie and watch the sunlit wall,
A little space of empty sky,
I watch the shadows creeping by,
Slowly, till evenfall.
And from the crooked street below,
In fits and starts melodious rise
The sounds of bells, and children’s cries,
And traffic to and fro.
While there the vulture beats his wings,
The pulse of war throbs fever high,
Here for a little space I lie
And dream of little things.