And yet a few short hours before, when death
Was taking in his most exacting toll
Of this, his bloodiest year, were women seen,
Fulfilling well their office. Lovingly
Their hands were placed on the hot flush of wounds
Made by the steel of surgeon and of foe.
They beat the angels, at the angels' game,
Those women. God might well His embassage
Forego--His feudals of pure space--and take
In chartered ministry those lovelier forms,
They know the ravelled driftings of our life,
And hence God's art of salvage all the more.