Dead?

Who?

Not you—for whom the assassin's hand

But opened wide the door to larger life

And Immortality!

You are not dead!—

You live forever in our hearts and minds,

A perfect woman, brave, and sweet, and true,

Passed, in the gracious fulness of your time,

To nobler work for Him you served so well.

And you still work among us as before,—

And more.—

No sister-nurse in all the world to-day

But bears upon her heart and face

The impress of your soul's high martyrdom;

And we pay each the homage due to you.

All nursing-hands are gentler still—for you!

All nursing-feet are swifter still—for you!

All nursing-hearts are braver still—for you!

And all our souls more loftily attuned

By our sweet memory of you.

But dead—ay, dead, in grimmest truth,

The soul of that poor land

Dead to all sense of right,—

Dead to all sense of shame,—

Dead to mere decency,—

And dead—dead—dead to God

And His Fair Christ.

The pity!—oh, the pity!—that a land

Which once bore men

Should fall so low!

What punishment could fit so foul a crime?

No punishment devisable of man were adequate.

As thou forgavest, we can do no less.

God saw it all.

In His just balances it lies,

The crowning weight of their vast infamies.

In His own time, in His own way,

For this—and all—we wait His Reckoning-Day.