A SWEETLY winsome face.
Ripe lips and merry eyes
Where tender pity lies;
Brown hair beneath a cap of lace
To keep the wayward locks in place.
A fichu neat and plain
Crossed on her bosom white;
Her heart beneath is light.
But throbs in sympathy with pain
And other ‘s sorrows feels again.
Her very presence heals,
Her quiet footfalls soothe.
Her hand is soft and smooth,
And as my fevered pulse she feels
A glad thrill through my being steals.
And when, grown bold, I say,
“I love you, gentle nurse!”
She says, “I ‘m sure you’re worse!
You must not talk, you’re worse today.”
And so she flings my heart away.
By: Myles Tyler Frisbie
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