The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

The fever burns from morn till eve;

I toss upon my bed;

And none but heavy hands relieve

My aching, heated head.

Harsh voices of hard-hearted men

Attempt to sympathize;

But sympathy is worthless when

Love gives it not its rise.

Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain,

Thy voice to mine reply,

‘ Twere rapture then to toss in pain,

‘ Twere rapture e'en — to die!