Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/82

80 She painted too, aye, wonderfully well. We often dreamed of brighter days in store. And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail; I saw the shadows darken round her eyes. So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale, And oh, there came a day she could not rise. The doctor looked at her; he shook his head, And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air: “If you can get her out of this,” he said, “She’ll have a fighting chance with proper care.”

“With proper care!” When he had gone away, I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief. Under my old and ragged coat she lay, Our room was bare and cold beyond belief. “Maybe,” I thought, “I still can paint a bit, Some lilies, landscape, anything at all.” Alas! My brush, I could not steady it. Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall. “With proper care”–how could I give her that, Half of me dead?… I crawled down to the street. Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat And begged of every one I chanced to meet. I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread, And so I fought to keep the Doom away; And yet I saw with agony of dread My dear one sinking, sinking day by day. And then I was awakened in the night: “Please take my hands, I’m cold,” I heard her sigh; And soft she whispered, as she held me tight: