All morning while the fingers of the clock

Their leisured way,

Their awful, tantalizing, terrifying way,

Have moved, as if a rock

Sat on each moment of the day;

All morning, every long-drawn interval,

My spirit has been hovering

In apprehensive wondering,

Hovering about the hospital.


“Has it been done?” I ask, and seek

Answer in vain from my own mind;

For there I cannot find

Connected thought

In all its chaos, however diligently sought.

Each hour becomes a week.


At length, at length crawls noon

Towards me

With its liberty.

Out, out into the air,

Gloriously free,

To meet one waiting there

Who has an equal share

In anxiety

With me.


I swoon

Almost, and heart beats hammer strong

As with fleet feet

We seem to glide along

The street.

There, there at last ! What news will greet

Our hungry ears?

Will it dissolve our hardening fears?


How is she?

Comfortable, much as one can yet expect !

And was she –?

Did she — ? I mean, was the operation –?

Not till Thursday !

To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow

Grey morn succeeding morn and morn

In rank forlorn.

Our hopes, our tremulous fears

Force unashamed tears;

From burdened eyes they start,

Releasing in their fall

The stinging salt of all

The pent-up holds of heart.