WHEN one's been lying sick in bed, with plaster casts upon his head, and poultices upon his feet, recovery seems, oh, so sweet! The doctors, round my couch of straw, have plied the squirtgun and the saw; for weary days, that endless seemed, I tied myself in knots and screamed, for every ache that has a name held wassail in my stricken frame, and many aches not classified whizzed through my sinews and my hide. At last I fell into a sleep, an old-time slumber, rich and deep, and when I woke my form was free from every brand of agony. 'Tis at a crucial time like this, when full of convalescent bliss, a fellow feels how great is health—far greater than the whole world's wealth. And he can clearly realize how dippy, batty and unwise, it is to sacrifice that boon, to gain another picayune. A million men, you may observe, are straining every bone and nerve, year after year, to add one more gun-metal dollar to their store. Some day they'll be where I have been, with poultices from feet to chin, and when they lie in solitude, and o'er their years of folly brood, they'll say, as I am saying yet, that health's the one and only bet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO BAYARD TAYLOR by SIDNEY LANIER SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: COLUMBUS CHENEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LONGING FOR HEAVEN by ANNE BRADSTREET THE WILL OF GOD by FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER A SONG OF LIFE by ABRAHAM IBN EZRA |