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Thomas Hardy - A Wasted Illness
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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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