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www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry
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.
Written by: Thomas Hardy

Book: Reflection on the Important Things