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.