Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path!
But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.”
Children’s Ward
By Hortense Flexner
(In “The Survey.”)
She had been sent for—visiting hours were past—