 | Words by the Wayside |  |
122
To Florence Nightingale
Saint Florence, Lady of the lamp of love,
What wouldst thou with earth's praise, whose puny spark,
Matched with the flame thou filchedst from above,
Scarce pricks the dark?
What wouldst thou with earth's praise, whose puny spark,
Matched with the flame thou filchedst from above,
Scarce pricks the dark?
If the world's worship of thine angel-ways,
If anguished lips that hailed thee half-divine,
If dying benedictions, count for praise,
That praise is thine.
If anguished lips that hailed thee half-divine,
If dying benedictions, count for praise,
That praise is thine.
Thy very name, that doth sweet music mean,
Must sweeter grow with every passing year.
Dear, while in sight, we deemed thee, but, unseen,
How doubly dear!
Must sweeter grow with every passing year.
Dear, while in sight, we deemed thee, but, unseen,
How doubly dear!
| Words by the Wayside | |