Xx

Alas! when the poison of disease Ran, with my slow and torpid blood, More sluggish and more torpid day by day, Ran in my veins a leaden flood; And my poor eyes Saw my hands so thin and white, Morosely watched the dreaded course Of the hated blight; When I had not even force Upon your heart my burning mouth to press There to kiss our happiness; When the days, monotonous and sad, Gnawed my consciousness with spite, I never could, myself, have found the will To rise with stoic might, If you had not poured into my veins The secret heroism that you have, Daily, every hour of every week, With hands so patient, so serene and brave.