The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve. I toss upon my bed; And none but heavy hands relieve My aching, heated head.

Harsh voices of hard-hearted men Attempt to sympathize; But sympathy is worthless when Love gives it not its rise.

Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain, Thy voice to mine reply, 'Twere rapture then to toss in pain, 'Twere rapture e'en—to die!