Living
The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve
From Verses of Feeling and Fancy (1890)
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!
Codex Note
The book prefaces the poem with a note that it renders in verse the words of a young officer in the Indian service stricken with fever.
Cite this poem
MLA
MacKeracher, William M. “The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.” Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/mackeracher/17/.
Chicago
MacKeracher, William M. “The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.” Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/mackeracher/17/.
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