Classic Poem

I do not bring you health, or cold
Coarse pity as the Gentiles do:
Though swathed in sickness sevenfold,
The world shall come for health to you.

The hair on your unconquered head
Shall freshen wanderers like a field
The very healers round your bed
Shall touch your garment and be healed.

I weep not: there is naught in you
Of darkened windows or of dread:
Your soul is blue as skies are blue
And red as battlefields are red.

You burn all blood-red through the grey
(O hands and eyes of my desire!)
You burn the sundering walls away
You set the sundering Thames on fire.

You flush the river, reddening past,
Round the tall house your flames are curled,
You will burn up the world at last,
You are too healthy for the world.