“I have few, few days remaining;
Now I scarce can draw my breath;
See my hand: no blood is in it;
And I feel like one who slowly,
Slowly, slowly, bleeds to death.”
And his worn and heavy eyelids
Close again as if in sleep;
While thou lookest at his features
With a long and searching anguish
In thy eyes—that dare not weep.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
Watch him closer, closer still!
There be things within the boundless
Realm of Horror, unsuspected—
Things that slowly, slowly, kill!
In his face there is no colour,
And his hand is ivory-white;
But upon his throat is something
Like a small red stain or puncture,
Something like a leech’s bite.
Sister Mary, Sister Mary,
Dost thou see that small red stain?
Hast thou never noticed something
Like it on the throats of others
Whom thy care has nursed in vain?
Have no rumours reached thee, Sister,
Of a Thing that haunts these wards
When the scanty sleep thou takest
Cheats the sick of the protection
Which thy vigilance affords?
When, at night, the ward is silent
And the night-lamp’s dimness hides,
And the nurse on duty slumbers
In her chair with measured breathing,
Then it glides, and glides, and glides,
Like a woman’s form, new risen
From the grave with soundless feet,
Clad in something which the shadows
Of the night-lamp render doubtful
Whether robe or winding-sheet.
And its eyes seem fixed and sightless,
Like the eyeballs of the dead;
But it gropes not and moves onward
Sure and silent, seeking something,
In the ward, from bed to bed.
And if any, lying sleepless,
Sees it, he becomes as stone;
Terror glues his lips together,
While his eyes are forced to follow
All its movements, one by one.