I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

I work with patience, which is almost power.

The essence of all beauty, I call love.

In your patience ye are strong.

And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”

Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.

How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.