And hastened on with the rich perfume
And a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.
He hushed his voice as he entered there,
For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,
With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,
And rushing memories of bright things gone
To the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,
Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.
One tender act that he did that day,
Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,