I CLIMBED one night the winding flight
To a medical student's room;
A place that is drear and sombre and queer,
And full of unearthly gloom.
On his table there lay a volume of Gray,
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A work on the human frame,
Which was bound, not in calf, but the skin they call scarf,
From an Ethiop's biceps that came.
The grinning skull of a yellow Mongol
Above his head was set,
Which all the world's plaudits from its empty orbits
With a look of derision met.
As if it would say to the thoughtless and gay,
"Make the most of your pleasures, my lad;
In a very short while you will change that smile
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