144

We carried Eliot to bed
            In the lap of our
                        Arms, mounted the stairs
And him a shivering
            White shape with his
                        Fat yellow teeth biting at
Nothing in the dimness
            Of the passage and his
                        Body in a white sheet
Scattered with dry oats
            He had been eating at
                        The table in papa's chair.
He had been convulsing
            For a half hour and ma
                        Had laid him down on
The plain clean tile
            And poured milk through
                        His bloody, bitten lips
Before we tried to
            Move him at all.
                        It was the evening.
He had always been
            A pale sickly kid,
                        Born late and badly.
The doctor had looked
            At him for only a
                        Minute before he spoke.
This was several years
            Before Dewey or my sister
                        Lou had been born.