Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/63

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A SICK-BED.
57
Nor watch that none shall tread, With noisy footstep, nigh;Nor listen by my bed, To hear my faintest sigh,
And feign a look of cheer, And words of comfort speak,Yet turn to hide the tear That gathers on thy cheek.
Beside me, where I rest, Thy loving hands will sotThe flowers that please me best: Moss-rose and violet.
Then to the sleep I crave Resign me, till I seeThe face of Him who gave His life for thee and me.
Yet, with the setting sun, Come, now and then, at eve,
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