By The Hospital

By Nora May French

Who goes to meet the windy night
    With unseen comrades shouting by,
Who grips a bough in swift delight
    To let it dip and loose and fly;
Who runs for rest that running gives,
    Runs till his throbbing muscles speak;
Who bends to feel how keenly lives
    The joyous grass beneath his cheek—
With sudden tears his eyes shall fill,
    With quick-drawn breath he sees them plain—
Those bodies that must lie so still,
    So tired—in the House of Pain.