The Little Brother

God! how they plague his life, the three damned sisters,
     Thowing stones at him out of cherry trees
Pulling his hair, smudging his exercises,
     Whispering. How passionately he sees
His spilt minnows flounder in the grass.

There will be sisters subtler far than these,
Baleful and dark, with slender, well-cared for hands,
     Who will not grin and babble in the trees,
But feed him with sweet words and provocations,
     And in his sleep practice their sorceries,
Appearing in the form of ragged clouds
     And at the corners of malignant seas.

As with his wounded life he goes alone
     To the world's end, where even tears freeze,
He will in bitter memory and remorse
     Hear the lost sisters innocently tease.

Discharged From Hospital

He stands upon the steps and fronts the morning.
The porter has called a taxi, and behind him
The infirmary doors have swung and come to rest.
Physician, surgeon, and anaesthetist
Have exercised their skill and he is cured.
The rabelaisian sister with the bedpan,
The vigorous masseuse, the sensual nurse
Who washes him modestly beneath a blanket,
The dawn chorus of cleaners, the almoner,
The visiting clergyman—all proceed without him.
He is alone beyond all need of them,
And the saved man goes home, to die of health.