CLINICAL
Hist? . . .
Through the corridor's echoes, Louder and nearer Comes a great shuffling of feet.
Quick, every one of you, Strighten your quilts, and be decent!
Here's the Professor.
In he comes first With the bright look we know, From the broad, white brows the kind eyes Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow, White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse, Towel on arm and her inkstand Fretful 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 themselves Round the first bed, where the Chief (His dressers and clerks at attention), Bends in inspection already.
So shows the ring Seen from behind round a conjurer Doing 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 sound Of breath quick intaken through teeth Clenched in resolve. And the Master Breaks from the crowd, and goes, Wiping his hands, To the next bed, with his pupils Flocking and whispering behind him.
Now one can see.
Case Number One Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes Stripped up, and showing his foot (Alas for God's Image!)
Swaddled in wet, white lint Brilliantly hideous with red.
