EDITH CAVELL
The world hath its own dead; great motions start
In human breasts, and make for them a place
In that hushed sanctuary of the race
Where every day men come, kneel and depart.
Of them, O English nurse, henceforth thou art,
A name to pray on, and to all a face
Of household consecration: such His grace
Whose universal dwelling is the heart.
O gentle hands that soothed the soldier's brow
And knew no service save of Christ, the Lord!
Thy country now is all humanity!
How like a flower thy womanhood doth show,
In the harsh scything of the German sword,
And beautifies the world that saw it die!
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