The bravest are the tenderest,--
The loving are the daring.

B. TAYLOR.




In the Hospital.


I lay me down to sleep,
With little thought or care
Whether my waking find
Me here or there.

A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now.
To march the weary march
I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong--all that is past;
I am ready not to do
At last, at last.