Spring in the Hospital
I
Is it surprising that the sick are serene and tender, gaze far-off, and behold what no one sees, lie late at night and smile into the darkness, and caress the cots joyfully, because a riddle becomes clear to them?
Is it surprising that the sick emerge from their slumber rich and fragrant (like a seed awaking from its sleep in springtime) lie refreshed in quiet wards and hear a wing flapped at their heads and some one calling them by name?
Is it surprising that the sick are ready to turn holy and await with joy the passing of days and nights as tithe is allotted ... Is it surprising that the Holy One is promenading through the hospitals, as his spirit once roamed the surface of the primeval waters?
II
And whence comes the Love that goes like a physician from cot to cot and applies its ear, and the ward awakes like a frightened city when shouts break forth from every gate?
And whence comes the Love that hangs like a big lamp and rouses from sleep him who dreams alone, until they all sit up — white in the silence — looking — thinking — and suddenly burst into weeping?
And that all the patients feel akin to one another like so many beams of one great Grace — is it not because in this rude and coarsened world they are the citizens of the most genteel town?
III
The odor of loneliness is here like that of hay, of grass in the evening shadow. Here people live and grow blue like trees when the sun dies down. Strangers come hither, weary as the winds at eventide in the fields, and go from here like peasant-songs when the final sheaves already are tied .
Here hearts are bent and droop like days at their setting. Yet the decline is beautiful: they fall in silken dimness. Everyone becomes like distance, each and everyone is stillness and in the stillness there is so much pain. Here is always evening-prayer time .
Those who are destined to be snuffed out always pray. From here white sadness pours into the world even as from the first stars. And it becomes so chilly and insecure: Where? Who? — Until Someone indites in gold script on a high cloud: Come — unto Me you shall belong! — —
Is it surprising that the sick are serene and tender, gaze far-off, and behold what no one sees, lie late at night and smile into the darkness, and caress the cots joyfully, because a riddle becomes clear to them?
Is it surprising that the sick emerge from their slumber rich and fragrant (like a seed awaking from its sleep in springtime) lie refreshed in quiet wards and hear a wing flapped at their heads and some one calling them by name?
Is it surprising that the sick are ready to turn holy and await with joy the passing of days and nights as tithe is allotted ... Is it surprising that the Holy One is promenading through the hospitals, as his spirit once roamed the surface of the primeval waters?
II
And whence comes the Love that goes like a physician from cot to cot and applies its ear, and the ward awakes like a frightened city when shouts break forth from every gate?
And whence comes the Love that hangs like a big lamp and rouses from sleep him who dreams alone, until they all sit up — white in the silence — looking — thinking — and suddenly burst into weeping?
And that all the patients feel akin to one another like so many beams of one great Grace — is it not because in this rude and coarsened world they are the citizens of the most genteel town?
III
The odor of loneliness is here like that of hay, of grass in the evening shadow. Here people live and grow blue like trees when the sun dies down. Strangers come hither, weary as the winds at eventide in the fields, and go from here like peasant-songs when the final sheaves already are tied .
Here hearts are bent and droop like days at their setting. Yet the decline is beautiful: they fall in silken dimness. Everyone becomes like distance, each and everyone is stillness and in the stillness there is so much pain. Here is always evening-prayer time .
Those who are destined to be snuffed out always pray. From here white sadness pours into the world even as from the first stars. And it becomes so chilly and insecure: Where? Who? — Until Someone indites in gold script on a high cloud: Come — unto Me you shall belong! — —
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