By Eva Willes Wangsgard
Long years ago, when I was ill
And tossed about in pain,
When ev’ry effort toward relief
Seemed to be made in vain,
So often I would hear a step
As soft as angel’s tread;
Pain-shadowed eyes could dimly see
A figure by my bed.
My father’s voice would say to me –
What comfort in a word –
Why can’t you sleep, my little one?
Was it not you I heard?”
Then I would feel his work-rough hands
Laid on my fevered brow,
And hear his soothing voice assure,
“There, you’ll feel better now.”
Still after all these years it seems
A miracle to me
That pain would vanish at a touch
And sleep come instantly.