UPON the whitewashed walls <br />A woman's shadow falls, <br />A woman walketh o'er the darksome floors. <br />A soft, angelic smile <br />Lighteth her face the while, <br />In passing through the dismal corridors. <br /> <br />And now and then there slips <br />A word from out her lips, <br />More sweet and grateful to those listening ears <br />Than the most plaintive tale <br />Of the sad nightingale, <br />Whose name and tenderness this woman bears. <br /> <br />Her presence in the room <br />Of agony and gloom, <br />No fretful murmurs, no coarse words profane; <br />For while she standeth there, <br />All words are hushed save prayer; <br />She seems God's angel weeping o'er man's pain. <br /> <br />And some of them arise, <br />With eager, tearful eyes, <br />From off their couch to see her passing by. <br />Some, e'en too weak for this, <br />Can only stoop and kiss <br />Her shadow, and fall back content to die. <br /> <br />No monument of stone <br />Needs this heroic one,— <br />Her name is graven on each noble heart; <br />And in all after years <br />Her praise will be the tears <br />Which at that name from quivering lids will start. <br /> <br />And those who live not now, <br />To see the sainted brow, <br />And the angelic smile before it flits for aye, <br />They in the future age <br />Will kiss the storied page <br />Whereon the shadow of her life will lie.<br /><br />Emma Lazarus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/florence-nightingale-3/
