  LAST night, when I was wearied to my soul, I was slipping out to dreamland very fast. When I tho’t about you, and the things you did, The help you gave, for which I did not ask. Your unselfishness and kind deeds true, Kept coming up before me like a scroll. I could not count the many things you did, For me, when I was sick, in body and in soul. My undeserving self grew very, very tired. With all the counting of them, and I slept. But, ’twas just to dream again of all these things, And in my restless sleep, I wept, and wept, and wept. |
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