The Morning Mists Still Haunt The Stony Street; The Northern Summer Air Is Shrill And Cold; And Lo, The Hospital, Grey, Quiet, Old, Where Life And Death Like Friendly Chafferers Meet. Thro' The Loud Spaciousness And Draughty Gloom A Small, Strange Child - So Aged Yet So Young! - Her Little Arm Besplinted And Beslung, Precedes Me Gravely To The Waiting-Room. I Limp Behind, My Confidence All Gone. The Grey-Haired Soldier-Porter Waves Me On, And On I Crawl, And Still My Spirits Fail: A Tragic Meanness Seems So To Environ These Corridors And Stairs Of Stone And Iron, Cold, Naked, Clean - Half-Workhouse And Half-Jail.