Weary, the surgeon drops his knife, his skillful fingers
drained of power;
Worn, the anaesthetist, death’s fencer, sets down the
mask
that has dimmed all;
Tired, the midwife a moment stands, childless in all
this flowering;
Fatigued, the nurses nod their starched
white visors to the whitewashed
wall;
Exhausted, the mother, supine on her barrow
shucked, pale as her gown.
O ghostly retainers!
O white grenadiers!
Who has strength to take up
This new being, my son,
Who near bellows the house down?
Delivery Room
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