I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight.
That deathmask yonder—carrion mass of clay—
Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight
The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay.
The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay,
Will go next sennight—how these swart folk die!
Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye,
On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.
ENVOY
“This too will pass!” my comfort be alway.