Poems (Henley)/Clinical

by William Ernest Henley

XI CLINICAL

Hist? . . .Through the corridor's echoes,Louder and nearerComes a great shuffling of feet.Quick, every one of you,Straight your quilts, and be decent!Here's the Professor.

In he comes firstWith the bright look we know,From the broad, white brows the kind eyesSoothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow,White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,Towel on arm and her inkstandFretful with quills.Here in the ruck, anyhow,

Surging along,Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs—Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles—Hustles the Class! And they ring themselvesRound the first bed, where the Chief(His dressers and clerks at attention),Bends in inspection already.

So shows the ringSeen from behind round a conjurerDoing his pitch in the street.High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;While from within a voice,Gravely and weightily fluent,Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)Out of a quiver of silence,Over the hiss of the spray,Comes a low cry, and the soundOf breath quick intaken through teethClenched in resolve. And the MasterBreaks from the crowd, and goes,Wiping his hands, To the next bed, with his pupilsFlocking and whispering behind him.

Now one can see.Case Number OneSits (rather pale) with his bedclothesStripped up, and showing his foot(Alas for God's Image!)Swaddled in wet, white lintBrilliantly hideous with red.