Florence Nightingale

UPON the whitewashed walls

A woman's shadow falls,

A woman walketh o'er the darksome floors.

A soft, angelic smile

Lighteth her face the while,

In passing through the dismal corridors.

And now and then there slips

A word from out her lips,

More sweet and grateful to those listening ears

Than the most plaintive tale

Of the sad nightingale,

Whose name and tenderness this woman bears.

Her presence in the room

Of agony and gloom,

No fretful murmurs, no coarse words profane;

For while she standeth there,

All words are hushed save prayer;

She seems God's angel weeping o'er man's pain.

And some of them arise,

With eager, tearful eyes,

From off their couch to see her passing by.

Some, e'en too weak for this,

Can only stoop and kiss

Her shadow, and fall back content to die.

No monument of stone

Needs this heroic one,—

Her name is graven on each noble heart;

And in all after years

Her praise will be the tears

Which at that name from quivering lids will start.

And those who live not now,

To see the sainted brow,

And the angelic smile before it flits for aye,

They in the future age

Will kiss the storied page

Whereon the shadow of her life will lie.