In the still midnight—how it wrung her heart!
Yea, she could hear it even when she slept,
And often wakened with a feverish start,
Beseeching God, in many a tearful prayer,
To ease the pain that she so longed to share.
Blithely she carolled when the morning sun
Rose o’er the alley like a blushing bride;
Or grave and silent, like some meek-faced nun,
Plied she her needle by the sufferer’s side—
And oh, it was so sweet to toil for him