I wakened on my hot, hard bed;
Upon the pillow lay my head;
Beneath the pillow I could hear
My little watch was ticking clear.
I thought the throbbing of it went
Like my continual discontent;
I thought it said in every tick:
I am so sick, so sick, so sick:
O death, come quick, come quick, come quick,
Come quick, come quick, come quick, come quick...

Frances Macdonald Cornford

Read poems about / on: sick, death

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5/9/2008 9:52:38 AM. You Are Here: The Watch by Frances Macdonald Cornford