I was ill, and with a touch
She reclaimed my waning strength.
Bless her, God, and give her much
Joy in love, and days of length.
What is tragic
Pain to me?
Such her magic--
Alchemy.
She smiled on me
When I was ill
And, lo!
From pain set free
I go
And drink my fill
At her beauty’s fountain flowing!
Oh, the bliss of breathing
Fragrance from her graces blowing;
Grace like colour seething,
From a thousand flowers,
Scenting June’s rich bowers.
I am well, and she has made
Every sorrow
Bring a morrow
Happier than today.
Every sadness is repaid
With rejoicing;
Like a voicing
Woodland in the month of May.
Merry is her soul,
And witty, too, her nimble mind--
Like a golden bowl
Of medicines of every kind.
Laughter lurks in all her dimples,
Loving hands of hers give simples--
Soothing, cheering, happy one--
Treasure of the golden sun!