Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People

In Memoriam: Florence Nightingale She Whom We Love, Our Lady Of Compassion, Can Never Die, For Love Forbids Her Death. Love Has Bent Down In His Old Kindly Fashion, And Breathed Upon Her His Immortal Breath. On Wounded Soldiers, In Their Anguish Lying, Her Gentle Spirit Shall Descend Like Rain. Where The White Flag With The Red Cross Is Flying, There Shall She Dwell, The Vanquisher Of Pain.

I Think That I Shall Never Scan A Tree As Lovely As A Man. . . . . A Tree Depicts Divinest Plan, But God Himself Lives In A Man.

What Matters Death, If Freedom Be Not Dead? No Flags Are Fair, If Freedom's Flag Be Furled. Who Fights For Freedom, Goes With Joyful Tread To Meet The Fires Of Hell Against Him Hurled.

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree. A Tree Whose Hungry Mouth Is Prest Against The Earth's Sweet Flowing Breast.