Where they bound men’s wounds and swabbed them with green corn leaves, There being no other lint. Whitman, with his sack of tobacco and comfits, Passing along the terrible, crowded wards, Listening, writing letters, trying to breathe Strong life into lead-colored lips. He does what he can. The doctors do what they can. The nurses save a life here and another there, But the sick men die like flies in the hospitals.)