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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