| In the sanatorium
|
| I’ve booked a private room
|
| Where you can feel at home
|
| Where we can be alone
|
| Just you, the nurse and me
|
| In mountain scenery
|
| All the time that you’ve been ill
|
| Your face has looked so pale
|
| Drained by the force of will
|
| Drained by the wait until
|
| My treatment makes you well
|
| Or weaker still
|
| Half in love with easeful death
|
| I cloud the mirror with your breath
|
| Half in love with this disease
|
| That keeps you close to me
|
| Your eyes grow heavy as I read
|
| 'The Immoralist' by André Gide
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| Fall asleep my sickly darling
|
| Rest in peace
|
| Men you used to know declare
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| Their most sincere desire
|
| To travel here and share
|
| The treatment you require
|
| Their letters saying they care
|
| Are on the fire
|
| As I interrupt the muslin
|
| Hanging round the bed
|
| I wake you with the rustling
|
| And you raise your head
|
| And ask again, your voice uncertain
|
| If you’re not a burden
|
| I wonder, as I watch you sleep
|
| If this possessive streak
|
| Will make me force my love
|
| Or if the trick is cheap
|
| And if you took your drug
|
| And if you’re deep enough asleep
|
| (For love will endure or not endure regardless of where we are) |