I WAS ill, and with a touch
She reclaimed my waning strength.
Bless her, God, and give her much
Joy in love, and days of length.
What is tragic
Pain to me?
Such her magic—
Alchemy.
She smiled on me
When I was ill
And, lo!
From pain set free
I go
And drink my fill
At her beauty’s fountain flowing!
Oh, the bliss of breathing
Fragrance from her graces blowing;
Grace like colour seething,
From a thousand flowers,
Scenting June’s rich bowers.
I am well, and she has made
Every sorrow
Bring a morrow
Happier than today.
With rejoicing;
Like a voicing
Woodland in the month of May.
Merry is her soul,
And witty, too, her nimble mind—
Like a golden bowl
Of medicines of every kind.
Laughter lurks in all her dimples,
Loving hands of hers give simples—
Soothing, cheering, happy one—
Treasure of the golden sun!