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Show IN A HASTINGS HOSPITAL A Story of the War Told to the Writer. By Stephen Phillips. They wrote: "Your sweetheart in this ward Lies wounded; at all hours Asking to see your face again." She flew to him with flowers. Swiftly she came beside his bed, Softly beside him set Bunches of primrose and daffodil And sweeter violet. And these she held for him to smell, Fresh from their English bank, While still the soldier backward lay And of their sweetness drank. Faintly he told of his many fights, Of being left for dead; She, like a sister, laid her hand Over the bandaged head. "Enough," they told her; she must go. Yes, she would come again, But longer now to stay would bring A fever to the brain. But ere she went she said to him: "This primrose take from me; It is so light, it is so bright, And restful it will be." The man was troubled sore; his eyes Looked from the1 linen bands, And gently then he answered her: "Dear, but I have no handB." trr . A moment on his words she thought In doubt beside the door; Then on a sudden understood, And swooned upon the floor. London Mail. |