I hear my children come. They trample with their feet,
Fetched from their play to kiss my thin-boned hands lying on the sheet,
Fresh as young colts with every field before them,
With gazing apple-faces. Can it be this body bore them?
This poor body like an outworn glove,
That yet subdues a spirit which no more knows that it can love.
All day is theirs. I belong to night,
The brown surrounding caverns made of dream. The long failing fight,
On and on with pain. Theirs is sweet sleep
And morning breakfast with bright yellow butter. They can laugh and weep
Over a tiny thing, a toy, a crumb, a letter.
Tomorrow they will come again and say: " Now are you better?"
" Better, my lords, today", the Chamberlain replies;
And I shall be too tired and too afraid to cry out that he lies.