The Patient's Sweater

A life of its own and a long one is led By this penguin, with nothing to do with the breast- The wingless pullover, the patient's old vest; Now pass it some warmth, move the lamp to the bed. It dreams of the skiing; in darkness it poured From shaftbows, from harness, from bodies; it seemed That Christmas itself also sweated and snored; The walking, the riding-all squeaked and all steamed. A homestead, and horror and bareness beside, Cut-glass in the sideboards, and carpets and chests; The house was inflamed; this attracted the fence; The lights swam in pleurisy, seen from outside. Consumed by the sky, bloated shrubs on the way Were white as a scare and had ice in their looks. The blaze from the kitchen laid down by the sleigh On the snow the enormous hands of the cooks.