Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/837

 696. For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last— And the fever called 'Living' Is conquer'd at last.

Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length: But no matter—I feel I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart—ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea— The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the fever That madden'd my brain— With the fever called 'Living' That burn'd in my brain.