FROM THE GREAT WAR
35
He knows his leg is lost and done,
And he'll be hacked to pieces.
He's very angry—Let him be!
Here no one knows impatience,
There reigns an atmosphere that soothes
And cows the rudest patients.
Slow is the spell, but sure, that wields
This band, to service given,
With fingers soft they touch the wounds,
And softly speak of Heaven.
So subtle is their pious charm,
Our grumbler soon will see it
In his own way—and to each prayer
Make the response, "So be it!"
