A Wasted Illness

Through vaults of pain,
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain
  To dire distress.

  And hammerings,
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent
With webby waxing things and waning things
  As on I went.

  "Where lies the end
To this foul way?" I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend -
  The door to death.

  It loomed more clear:
"At last!" I cried. "The all-delivering door!"
And then, I knew not how, it grew less near
  Than theretofore.

  And back slid I
Along the galleries by which I came,
And tediously the day returned, and sky,
  And life--the same.

  And all was well:
Old circumstance resumed its former show,
And on my head the dews of comfort fell
  As ere my woe.

  I roam anew,
Scarce conscious of my late distress . . . And yet
Those backward steps through pain I cannot view
  Without regret.

  For that dire train
Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before,
And those grim aisles, must be traversed again
  To reach that door.

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Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy, was a Scottish Minister, Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland and Professor of Eccesiastical History at Edinburgh University. more…

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"A Wasted Illness" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 20 Sep. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/36313/a-wasted-illness>.

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