In quiet halls and buzzing rooms, 

Where life unfolds and with hope blooms,  

A healing touch, a steady hand, 

A soul who strives to understand.

They listen not just with their ears, 

But heart attuned to pain and fears. 

No paint nor clay, but blood and grace, 

Their canvas is the human face.

With every pulse, with every chart, 

They practice science and wield art. 

A whisper here, a gentle nod, 

Their presence speaks louder than laud.

They hold the hope that doctors write, 

Through sleepless days and endless nights. 

Yet ask them why they still endure? 

They’ll say: because it makes you sure—

That kindness heals, that time can mend, 

That care begins where rules must end. 

Each wound they tend, each life they touch, 

Unfolds a love that means so much.

We advocate with steady grace, 

Translate the science to each face. 

As leaders, mentors, guides unseen, 

We bridge the gaps that lie between.

The art is found in patient care, 

But also in the way we share— 

Through protocols we dare refine, 

And teaching lines we re-design.

Though evidence must chart the way, 

We elevate each healing day. 

For nursing’s art is not just skill, 

But passion, purpose, heart, and will.

Here’s to nurses—brave, unsung— 

Whose quiet art is never done.

The masterpiece they shape each day 

Is life itself, in a bright array.