Page:Troubadour.pdf/153

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All wore the same white, bloodless hue, All the same eyes of glassy blue, Meaningless, cold, corpse-like as those No gentle hand was near to close. And all seem'd, as they look'd on me, In wonder that I yet could be   A moving shape of warmth and breath Alone amid a world of death.

'Tis strange how much I still retain Of these wild tortures of my brain, Though now they but to memory seem A curse, a madness, and a dream; But well I can recall the hour When first the fever lost its power; As one whom heavy opiates steep, Rather in feverish trance than sleep,