Classic Poem

How dear the hand that chases pain away,
With the soft touch of Florence Nightingale,
And dear is friendship's hand that should not fail,
But ah, how often does its grasp betray!
There are firm hands that in mad battle slay,
Hands that spread midnight poisons, parched and pale,
Low, venal ones, whose pens like serpents trail,
And holy ones that succor, soothe, allay.

Sweet is the pressure of an honest hand;
Tender and true when dying parents bless,
Awful, when men livid with murder stand,
Noble, when thousands some great wrong suppress!
But I love most the little hand that fanned
My heart to love when all was wretchedness.