Quoted By:
>THE morning mists still haunt the stony street;
>The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
>And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
>Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
>Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
>A small, strange child — o aged yet so young! —
>Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
>Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
>I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
>The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
>And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
>tragic meanness seems so to environ
>These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
>Cold, naked, clean — half-workhouse and half jail.
