The pallid men of the North;
Each dingy old pew[870] is a sick man’s bed,
Each battered old bench[871] holds a weary head,
The altar candles are swept away,[872]
For vials and knives in shining array,
And a new saint[873] is stepping forth.
He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,
A saint of a Northern creed,
Clad in a uniform, army blue,
But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]