It may be the fever of restless serving
With heart all thirsty for love and praise,
And eyes all aching and strained with yearning
Toward self-set goals in the future days.
Or it may be fever of spirit anguish,
Some tempest of sorrow that does not down,
Till the cross at last is in meekness lifted
And the head stoops low for the thorny crown.
Or it may be a fever of pain and anger,
When the wounded spirit is hard to bear,