Dust

Lying awake in the ward Long hours as any must, I wonder where the dust Comes from, the Dust, the Dust! That makes their life so hard,-- The nurses, who must rub The soon appearing crust Of green on the bright knob. And little bits of fluff, Dull white upon the floor, Most soft, most curious stuff That sidles to the door When no one sees, and makes Deep wrinkles and heart-breaks; Light sighs and curses rough. Oh! if a scientist Of warm and kindly heart Should live a while apart, (Old Satan’s tail to twist,) Poring on crucibles, Vessels uncanny, till He won at last to Hell’s Grand secret of ill-will-- How Fluff comes and how Dust, Then nurses all would paint Cheeks pretty for his sake; Or stay in prayer awake All night for that great Saint Of Cleanliness, that bright Devoted anchorite; Brave champion and true knight.