Thank Heaven! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last— And the fever called “Living” Is conquered 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 maddened my brain— With the fever called “Living” That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated—the terrible Torture of thirst, For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst:— I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground— From a cavern not very far Down under ground.
And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed— For man never slept In a different bed; And, to sleep , you must slumber In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses— Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: