Alas! when the lead of illness flowed in my
benumbed veins with my heavy, sluggish blood,
with my blood day by day heavier and more
sluggish;
When my eyes, my poor eyes, followed peevishly on
my long, pale hands the fatal marks of insidious
malady;
When my skin dried up like bark, and I had no
longer even strength enough to press my fiery
lips against your heart, and there kiss our
happiness;
When sad and identical days morosely gnawed my
life, I might never have found the will and the
strength to hold out stoically,
Had you not, each hour of the so long weeks,
poured into my daily body with your patient,
gentle, placid hands the secret heroism that
flowed in yours.