Hushed and happy whiteness,
Miles on miles of cots,
The glad contented brightness
Where sunlight falls in spots.

Sisters swift and saintly
Seem to tread on grass;
Like flowers stirring faintly,
Heads turn to watch them pass.

Beauty, blood, and sorrow,
Blending in a trance—
Eternity's to-morrow
In this half-way house of France.

Sounds of whispered talking,
Laboured indrawn breath;
Then like a young girl walking
The dear familiar Death.