Here in the long white ward I stand,
Pausing a little breathless space,
Touching a restless fevered hand,
Murmuring comfort's commonplace--
Long enough pause to feel the cold
Fingers of fear about my heart;
Just for a moment, uncontrolled,
All the pent tears of pity start.
While here I strive, as best I may,
Strangers' long hours of pain to ease,
Dumbly I question--_Far away
Lies my beloved even as these?_
MISS G. M. MITCHELL.
Aug. 30, 1916.