Interior

The gaunt brown walls Look infinite in their decent meanness. There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle, The fulsome fire. The atmosphere Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist. Dressings and lint on the long, lean table - Whom are they for? The patients yawn, Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin. A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles. It's grim and strange. Far footfalls clank. The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged. My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . . O, a gruesome world!