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.