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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419601" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sickness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE toughest carcass in the town<br>Fell sick at last and took to bed,<br>And on that bed God waited him<br>With cool, cool hands for his frantic head,<br>And while the fever did its dance<br>They talked, and a good thing was said:<br>'See, I am not that Scriptural!<br>A lesser, kinder God instead.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Fever must run its course, and God<br>Could not do much for the countryman.<br>At least he saved him certain dreams:<br>'I die! O save me if you can,<br>I am a bruised, a beaten slave,<br>I march in a blistering caravan,<br>They dash a stone upon my head-- <br>Ah no, but that is God's white hand.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>God plucked him back, and plucked him back,<br>And did his best to smoothe the pain.<br>The sick man said it was good to know<br>That God was true, if prayer was vain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'O God, I weary of this night,<br>When will you bring the dawn again?'<br>The night must run its course, but God<br>Was weary too with watching-strain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>A cluck of tuneless silly birds,<br>A guilty gray, and it was dawn.<br>The sick man thumped across the floor<br>And slid the curtain that was drawn:<br>'O pale wet dawn! O let it shine<br>Lustrous and gold on the good green lawn!<br>The lustre, Lord!' Alas, God knows<br>When sad conclusions are foregone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The sick man leant upon his Lord,<br>On that imperfect break of day,<br>'Now, Lord, I die: is there no word,<br>No countervail that God can say?'<br>No word. But tight upon his arm,<br>Was God, and drew not once away<br>Until his punctual destiny.<br>To whom could God repair to pray? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Now God be thanked by dying men<br>Who comrades them in times like these, <br>Who dreads to see the doom come down<br>On these black midnight canopies<br>And on this poisonous glare of dawns.<br>The whole world crumples in disease,<br>But God is pitying to the end,<br>And gives an office to my knees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Crowe+Ransom">John Crowe Ransom</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419601" data-title="Sickness de John Crowe Ransom" data-description="THE toughest carcass in the town
Fell sick at last and took to bed,
And on that bed God waited him
With cool, cool hands for his frantic head,
And while the fever did its dance
They talked, and a good thing was said:
'See, I am not that Scriptural..."></div>
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