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!