Volume 9 — Sick.
Reading edition
My brother, o my brother! how my heart, Uncertain, sad, doth yearn for thee to-day! And my deep soul her earnest prayer doth say, That God not yet will loose the fearful dart; Not yet, sweet mercy, call on thee to part, Prepared so scantily for the long, long way; Nor till his lamp lights with her blessed ray The narrow line along the shadowy chart. Dear Lord, a stranger, far away he lies, Where fevered pestilence about him leers; His breath the yellow death! And yet my cries Are not for that loved body whose weak sighs First warmed her breast—'tis nine and twenty years— The soul, poor soul 'tis needs these prayers and tears.