Dust

Lying awake in the ward
Long hours as any must,
I wonder where the dust
Comes from, the Dust, the Dust!
That makes their life so hard,--
The nurses, who must rub
The soon appearing crust
Of green on the bright knob.

And little bits of fluff,
Dull white upon the floor,
Most soft, most curious stuff
That sidles to the door
When no one sees, and makes
Deep wrinkles and heart-breaks;
Light sighs and curses rough.

Oh! if a scientist
Of warm and kindly heart
Should live a while apart,
(Old Satan’s tail to twist,)
Poring on crucibles,
Vessels uncanny, till
He won at last to Hell’s
Grand secret of ill-will--
How Fluff comes and how Dust,
Then nurses all would paint
Cheeks pretty for his sake;
Or stay in prayer awake
All night for that great Saint
Of Cleanliness, that bright
Devoted anchorite;
Brave champion and true knight.