They walk the wards where midnight hums and quiet lamps defy the gloom,
With steady hands and watchful eyes that mark each breath and whispered plea;
No clang of fame attends their rounds, no laurel crowns their patient room,
Yet in their care the frail find strength, and pain yields slow to constancy.
Through measured steps and softened speech they guard the thin dividing line,
Where life leans hard on mortal skill and hope is kept by small design.
A distant flame from Crimea’s night still flickers in their ordered art,
Not borne by hand alone, but set within the discipline they keep;
In charts and charts again renewed, in quiet strength and steadfast heart,
They hold their vigil through the hours when other souls have turned to sleep.
No butcher’s haste, no careless trade, but knowledge tempered, calm, and sure,
A covenant of learned grace that binds the will to heal and cure.
So moves the light from age to age, though names may fade and years depart,
In every ward where mercy stands against the press of time and fear;
They bear no single lantern now, but carry it in mind and heart,
A living creed of watchful care that keeps the wounded anchored near.
And while the world may change its face and restless systems rise and fall,
The Lamp endures in those who serve, and answers still the suffering call.
(By John Shenton)