She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail;
I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale,
And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head,
And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air:
“If you can get her out of this,” he said,
“She’ll have a fighting chance with proper care.”
“With proper care!” When he had gone away,
I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay,
Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
“Maybe,” I thought, “I still can paint a bit,
Some lilies, landscape, anything at all.”
Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
“With proper care”–how could I give her that,
Half of me dead?… I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat
And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread,
And so I fought to keep the Doom away;
And yet I saw with agony of dread
My dear one sinking, sinking day by day.
And then I was awakened in the night:
“Please take my hands, I’m cold,” I heard her sigh;
And soft she whispered, as she held me tight:
