“But the Greatest of These is Charity”

White faces turn to us again

   Sad eyes from out their veils of clay:

Strength stricken low, and hopeless pain,

               Haunt us to-day.

Their wild eyes burn across our sleep:

   They haunt us in the busy throng

With silent eloquence, more deep

               Than word or song.

Give: we are pawns upon the board;

   We see not how Fate’s dice are thrown.

The life swung by a trembling cord

               Might be your own.

Give: ’twill be meted back to thee

   When Death who waits, soe’er we roam,

Withdraws the veil that we may see

               The Lights of Home.

(FOR THE HOSPITAL)