Hours Of Pain

By Ellen P. Allerton

With the hot blood rushing, swelling,
Surging through my throbbing brain,
Worn and weary, past the telling,
Nerveless in the grasp of pain,
Lean on my thorny pillow,
Strewn with torments o’er and o’er;
Every poise a bursting billow,
Breaking on a tortured shore.
But there come, in soft caressing,
Gentle touches, loving hands;
As the soft rain drops its blessing
On the scorched and thirsty lands.
Tender voices, softly falling,
Drop their pity in my ear,
Sweet as tinkling waters, calling
O’er a desert parched and sere.
Bless your music, sweet young voices—
Dear young hands, your soft caress!
Pain is fierce, but love rejoices
In its conquering tenderness.

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