Surgical class at UPenn 1915

WWI Medical journal

neurological exam on a black and white baby

Stroke

bullet through the head

To the Moon by Giacomo Leopardi

Oh gracious moon, now as the year turns,

I remember how, heavy with sorrow,

I climbed this hill to gaze on you,

And then as now you hung above those trees

Illuminating all. But to my eyes

Your face seemed clouded, temulous

From the tears that rose beneath my lids,

So painful was my life: and is, my

Dearest moon; its tenor does not change.

And yet, memory and numbering the epochs

Of my grief is pleasing to me. How welcome

In that youthful time -when hope's span is long,

And memory short -is the remembrance even of

Past sad things whose pain endures.