Florence Nightingale

ON the whitewashed wallsA woman's shadow falls,

A woman walketh o'er the darksome floors.

A soft, angelic

Lighteth her face the while,

In passing through the dismal corridors.

And now and then there slipsA word from out her lips,

More sweet and grateful to those listening

Than the most plaintive

Of the sad nightingale,

Whose name and tenderness this woman bears.

Her presence in the

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

Her shadow, and fall back content to die.

No monument of

Needs this heroic one,—Her name is graven on each noble heart;

And in all after

Her praise will be the

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

Will kiss the storied

Whereon the shadow of her life will lie.