Thirty Poems/A Sick-Bed
A SICK-BED.
Long hast thou watched my bed, And smoothed the pillow oftFor this poor, aching head, With touches kind and soft.
Oh! smooth it yet again, As softly as before;Once—only once—and then I need thy hand no more.
Yet here I may not stay, Where I so long have lain, Through many a restless day, And many a night of pain.
But bear me gently forth Beneath the open sky,Where, on the pleasant earth, Till night the sunbeams lie.
There, through the coming days, I shall not look to theeMy weary side to raise, And shift it tenderly.
There sweetly shall I sleep; Nor wilt thou need to bringAnd put to my hot lip Cool water from the spring;
Nor wet the kerchief laid Upon my burning brow;Nor from my eyelids shade The light that wounds them now;
Nor watch that none shall tread, With noisy footstep, nigh;Nor listen by my bed, To hear my faintest sigh,
And feign a look of cheer, And words of comfort speak,Yet turn to hide the tear That gathers on thy cheek.
Beside me, where I rest, Thy loving hands will sotThe flowers that please me best: Moss-rose and violet.
Then to the sleep I crave Resign me, till I seeThe face of Him who gave His life for thee and me.
Yet, with the setting sun, Come, now and then, at eve, And think of me as one For whom thon should'st not grieve:
Who, when the kind release From sin and suffering came,Passed to the appointed peace In murmuring thy name.
Leave at my side a space, Where thou shalt come, at last,To find a resting place, When many years are past.