THE LIFE ON THE TABLE

In the white-walled room

Where the white bed waits

Stand banks of meaningless flowers;

In the rain-swept street

Are a ghost-like row of cabs;

And along the corridor-dusk

Phantasmal feet repass.

Through the warm, still air

The odour of ether hangs;

And on this slenderest thread

Of one thin pulse

Hangs and swings

The hope of life —

The life of her

I love!