Harvest-Home - A poem by Ellen P. Allerton

Hours of Pain.

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 pulse 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.

^__Ellen P. Allerton.

Walls of Corn and Other Poems
Ellen P. Allerton
(Hiawatha, KS: Harrington Printing Company. 1894)
Pages 133-135