I would but tell thee that from earth I turned;
I may not even to my friend reveal
Why one who is a very child in years
Hath drank so deeply at the fount of tears.
Thank God for gentle sleep! I close mine eyes,
And though all fevered fancies round me throng—
Though doubts that almost madden will arise—
She hath a power more subtil, and more strong.
Her blessed hand is on my forehead pressed,
Then comes forgetfulness, and I am blessed.