THE place seemed new and strange as death.
The white strait bed, with others strait and white.
Like graves dug side by side at measured lengths.
And quiet people walking in and out
With wonderful low voices and soft steps,
And apparitional equal care for each,
Astonished her with order, silence, law:
And when a gentle hand held out a cup,
She took it as you do at sacrament.
Half awed, half melted, — not being used, indeed.
To so much love as makes the form of love
And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks
And rare white bread, to which some dying eyes
Were turned in observation. my God,
How sick we must be ere we make men just!
I think it frets the saints in heaven to see
How many desolate creatures on the earth
Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship
And social comfort, in a hospital.
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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