* * * * *
THE AGUE.
Once upon an evening bleary,
While I sat me dreaming, dreary,
In the parlour thinking o'er
Things that passed in days of yore,
While I nodded, nearly sleeping,
Gently came something creeping,
Creeping upward from the floor.
"'Tis a cooling breeze," I muttered,
"From the regions 'neath the floor:
Only this and nothing more."
Ah! distinctly I remember—
It was in that wet September,
When the earth and every member
Of creation that it bore,
Had for weeks and months been soaking
In the meanest, most provoking,
Foggy rain, that without joking,
We had ever seen before.
So I knew it must be very
Cold and damp beneath the floor,
Very cold beneath the floor.
So I sat me, nearly napping,
In the sunshine, stretching, gaping,
With a feeling quite delighted
With the breezes 'neath the floor,
Till I felt me growing colder,
And the stretching waxing bolder,
And myself now feeling older,
Older than I felt before;
Feeling that my joints were stiffer
Than they were in days of yore,
Stiffer than they'd been before.
All along my back, the creeping
Soon gave place to rustling, leaping,
As if countless frozen demons
Had concluded to explore
All the cavities—the varmints!—
'Twixt me and my nether garments,
Through my boots into the floor:
Then I found myself a shaking,
Gently shaking more and more,
Every moment more and more.
'Twas the ague; and it shook me
Into heavy clothes, and took me
Shaking to the kitchen, every
Place where there was warmth in store,
Shaking till the china rattled,
Shaking till the morals battled;
Shaking, and with all my warming,
Feeling colder than before;
Shaking till it had exhausted
All its powers to shake me more.
Till it could not shake me more.
Then it rested till the morrow,
When it came with all the horror
That it had the face to borrow,
Shaking, shaking as before,
And from that day in September—
Day which I shall long remember—
It has made diurnal visits,
Shaking, shaking, oh! so sore,
Shaking off my boots, and shaking
Me to bed if nothing more,
Fully this if nothing more.
And to-day the swallows flitting
Bound my cottage see me sitting
Moodily within the sunshine
Just inside my silent door,
Waiting for the ague, seeming
Like a man forever dreaming,
And the sunlight on me streaming,
Casts no shadow on the floor,
For I am too thin and sallow
To make shadows on the floor,
Never a shadow any more.
* * * * *