I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken . . . . tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired . . . . I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels; They have cleared the beams away . . . . they tenderly lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt . . . . the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me . . . . the heads are bared of their fire-caps, the kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me . . . . and I am the clock myself.