Show the sick child he tor for whom the world was made can not lift his heavy head oa 01 its pretty curls puffed out rt 4 burnt with fevers parched with mith drought I 1 lie ire the tyrant whimsical with the round world for his ball in a dreada I 1 patience lies old since yesterday and wise like a martyr on the rack smiles his soft lips burnt to black acile the fever still devours his ills small body sweet aa as flowers dreadful patience like a sword stabs his mother mothers a heart dear lord make him naughty wild mild and gay As he was mas but yesterday little services he pas with his kisses and anu his his praise while his eles ak pardon still it that he s troublesome and ill he ile lies smiling with a fire ft in his cheeks blown high and higher by the wind mind of fever fanned lord his kisses on my hand handl I 1 give me back my boy I 1 pray turbulent of yesterday not this angel like a sword in his mother mothers s heart dear lord katharine in spectator |