3
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open
hospital doors!)
The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed
hand tear not the bandage
away,)
The neck of the cavalry-man with the
bullet through and through I
examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed
already the eye, yet life struggles
hard,
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O
beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)
From the stump of the arm, the amputated
hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the
slough, wash off the matter and
blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with
curv'd neck and side-falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he
dares not look on the bloody
stump,
And has not yet look'd on it.
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
But a day or two more, for see the frame
all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot
with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and
putrid gangrene, so sickening, so
offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside
me holding the tray and pail.
I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound
in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive
hand, (yet deep in my breast a
fire, a burning flame.)