Dirge of Dead Sisters by Rudyard Kipling

Seeing as how it was International Women's Day recently, and seeing as how a lot of very silly and uppity women and "celebrities" in the West immediately took to social media to mark the occasion with a lot of misandry and nonsense, it might be worth taking a moment or two to remember what things were like when there existed women who did very difficult and dangerous work to save men's lives, under extremely harsh conditions, with nary a word of complaint.

Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order 
(Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air?)
And the clink of iron teacups and the piteous, noble laughter, 
And the faces of the Sisters with the dust upon their hair? 

(Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils, 
Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by -
Let us now remember many honourable women,
Such as bade us turn again when we were like to die.) 

Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills, 
(Tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains?)
And the sun-scarred Red-Cross coaches creeping guarded to the culvert,
And the faces of the Sisters looking gravely from the trains?

(When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror, 
When the Powers of Darkness had dominion on our soul -
When we fled consuming through the Seven Hells of Fever, 
These put out their hands to us and healed and made us whole.) 

Who recalls the midnight by the bridge's wrecked abutment, 
(Autumn rain that rattled like a Maxim on the tin?)
And the lightning-dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons,
And the faces of the Sisters as they bore the wounded in? 

(Till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence -
When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay; 
When the Body triumphed and the last poor shame departed -
These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away.)

Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market, 
(Blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies?)
And the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness,
And the faces of the Sisters and the glory in their eyes? 

(Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all-hallowed, 
Patient, wise, and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town, 
These endured unresting till they rested from their labours -
Little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down!)

Yet their graves are scattered and their names are clean forgotten, 
Earth shall not remember, but the Waiting Angel knows
Them who died at Uitvlugt when the plague was on the city -
Her that fell at Simon's Town' in service on our foes.                          

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