Fleas, faintness, famine, stomach-ache, the feel Of flies upon your face, rats in your bed; Lice, dusty roads, a blister on your heel, The taste of salts, the scent of things long dead, Home-sickness, chilblains, grief uncomforted, A hollow tooth with cold, a hornet sting:-- These are unpleasant, yet when all is said I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.
See you the whole bright world before your eye Dwindle as ugly as a wrinkled pea. See Beauty, a pricked bubble: Truth, a lie: Achievement, foam on muddy water. See Yourself a yellow devil suddenly, And all the zest of youth gone journeying-- See you all this, and then you will agree (I think) that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.
Prince of the damned--I ransack my supplies To find a fitting wish at you to fling. Now may you look on Hell through yellow eyes. I think that jaundice is the damn’dest thing.
For friends to stand beside, for foes to fight, For devil’s work to break, for Wrong and Right, And will (however hard) to choose between them: For merry tales, no matter where you glean them: Songs, stars, delight of birds, and summer roses, Sunshine, wherein my friend the dog now dozes: Danger--the zest of life, and Love, the lord Of Life and Death: for every open word Spoken in blame or praise by friend o’ mine To spur me on: for old, good memories, Keeping in my soul’s cellar like good wine: For Truth that’s strong, and Beauty so divine: For animals, and children, and for trees, Both wintry-black and blossoming in white: For homely gardens and for humming bees: For drink, and dreams, and daisies on the sod, Plain food, and fire (when it will light)-- Thank God!
Grateful--ah, yes! I, who have seen The larches brighten green, The orchard’s Easter dress, And those red thousand poppies, In wheat below the coppice:
I, who (while others lie in graves Of earth, or rocked with waves), Have leave to walk And sing and talk, With golden lads and girls, My friends, To all the farthest ends, Whither Life whirls....
How can I not feel gratitude for this And other bliss, Which God--dear God--hath sent, For my great wonderment?
Within my heart I safely keep, England, what things are yours: Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep That drift o’er windy moors. Possessing naught, I proudly hold Great hills and little gay Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold At breaking of the day.