Doctors

Every night I lie awake
And every day I lie abed
And hear the doctors, Pain and Death,
Conferring at my head.

They speak in scientific tones,
Professional and low,
One argues for a speedy cure,
The other, sure and slow.

To one so humble as myself
It should be matter for some pride
To have such noted fellows here,
Conferring at my side.

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born in St. Louis, Missouri and her first poem publication was in 1907. Teasdale's style was characterized by clarity and simplicity, often focusing on themes of love, nature, and death. She won the Columbia University Poetry Society Prize for her 1917 collection Love Songs. Unfortunately, she faced severe health issues and depression towards the end of her life, leading to her suicide in 1933.

Sara Teasdale

The Princess In The Tower

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Primavera Mia

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Roundel

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Ghost

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

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Doctors

Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned.
His days are counted and reprieve is vain:
Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand;
Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain?

Send here the bold, the seekers of the way,
The passionless, the unshakeable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay,
And ask no more than leave to make them whole.

Rudyard

The Doctor.

    He bent above our darling's bed
        When her life was ebbing low,
    And in his serious look we read
        The truth we feared to know.

    We knew a slender thread was all
        That held her now; we saw
    The dark, portentous shadow fall,
        And near and nearer draw.

    Our hopes were centred all in him;
        We stood with bated breath
    As, pitiful and calm and grim,
        He fought and fought with Death.

    We hung upon the desperate fight,
        And saw in him combined
    The tiger's stealth, the lion's might,
        The man's superior mind.

    We saw the fearful hate he bore
        His old, relentless foe,
    His beautiful compassion for
        The one we cherished so.

W. M. MacKeracher

Beatrice

Send out the singers,let the room be still;
They have not eased my pain nor brought me sleep.
Close out the sun, for I would have it dark
That I may feel how black the grave will be.
The sun is setting, for the light is red,
And you are outlined in a golden fire,
Like Ursula upon an altar-screen.
Come, leave the light and sit beside my bed,
For I have had enough of saints and prayers.
Strange broken thoughts are beating in my brain,
They come and vanish and again they come.
It is the fever driving out my soul,
And Death stands waiting by the arras there.

Ornella, I will speak, for soon my lips
Shall keep a silence till the end of time.
You have a mouth for loving,listen then:
Keep tryst with Love before Death comes to tryst;
For I, who die, could wi...

Sara Teasdale

At Last

A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in
    With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot
The firmament; and where the moon has been
    An hour agone seems like the darkest spot.
The weird wind - furious at its demon game -
Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.

A care-worn face peers out into the dark,
    And childish faces - frightened at the gloom -
Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark
    The father's as he passes through the room:
The gate latch clatters, and wee baby Bess
Whispers, "The doctor's tummin' now, I dess!"

The father turns; a sharp, swift flash of pain
    Flits o'er his face: "Amanda, child! I said
A moment since - I see I must AGAIN -
    Go take your little sisters off to bed!
There, Effie, Rose, and CLARA MUSTN'T C...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Unseen

Death went up the hall
Unseen by every one,
Trailing twilight robes
Past the nurse and the nun.
He paused at every door
And listened to the breath
Of those who did not know
How near they were to Death.
Death went up the hall
Unseen by nurse and nun;
He passed by many a door
But he entered one.

Sara Teasdale

The Three Doctors.

        doctoribus loetamur tribus.


1826.


Tho' many great Doctors there be,
    There are three that all Doctors out-top,
Doctor Eady, that famous M. D.,
    Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.^[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard--
    All quacks in a different style;
Doctor Southey writes books by the yard.
    Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile!^[2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone
    By his scribbling or physicking brother,
Can dose us with stuff like the one.
    Ay, and doze us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps
    With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls;
Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps
    With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Do...

Thomas Moore