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.