The Merciful Hand

Written to Miss Alice L. F. Fitzgerald, Edith Cavell memorial nurse, going to the front.


Your fine white hand is Heaven's gift
To cure the wide world, stricken sore,
Bleeding at the breast and head,
Tearing at its wounds once more.

Your white hand is a prophecy,
A living hope that Christ shall come
And make the nations merciful,
Hating the bayonet and drum.

Each desperate burning brain you soothe,
Or ghastly broken frame you bind,
Brings one day nearer our bright goal,
The love-alliance of mankind.

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

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The Master of the Dance

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On Reading Omar Khayyam

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Titian

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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"Cross my hands upon my breast,"
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We clasped her hands upon her breast:
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Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings

    Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale,
    On sunny days have found you weak and still,
    Though I have often held your girlish head
    Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill: -

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Her Prayer.

    Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
    The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
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    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
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    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
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    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
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To Emma Abbott

There--let thy hands be folded
Awhile in sleep's repose;
The patient hands that wearied not,
But earnestly and nobly wrought
In charity and faith;
And let thy dear eyes close--
The eyes that looked alway to God,
Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod
Of sorrow;
Fold thou thy hands and eyes
For just a little while,
And with a smile
Dream of the morrow.

And, O white voiceless flower,
The dream which thou shalt dream
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Nurse Edith Cavell

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                To her accustomed eyes
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                Twas yet some hours ere light;
    And many, many, many a break of day
    Had she outwatched the dying; but this night
    Shortened her vigil was, briefer the way.

                By dial of the clock
    Twas day in the dark above her lonely head.
    "This day thou shalt be with Me."    Ere the cock
    Announced that day she met the Immortal Dead.

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Flowers Of France' Decoration Poem For Soldiers' Graves, Tours, France, May 30, 1918

Flowers of France in the Spring,
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This is the vast stupendous hour of Time,
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And awful are these moments charged with death
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In all this holocaust of human lives.

I say God's purpose thrives.    Just in the measure
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