The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

NOTE. - The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever.

    The fever burns from morn till eve;
        I toss upon my bed;
    And none but heavy hands relieve
        My aching, heated head.

    Harsh voices of hard-hearted men
        Attempt to sympathize;
    But sympathy is worthless when
        Love gives it not its rise.

    Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain,
        Thy voice to mine reply,
    'Twere rapture then to toss in pain,
        'Twere rapture e'en - to die!

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

Study In Solitude.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Dominion Day.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Country Boy's Boast.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

A Library.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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Third Song, written during Fever (Three Songs of Zahir-u-Din)

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Oh! the Sickening Sensation!

        Oh! the sickening sensation!
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To Music, To Becalm His Fever

Charm me asleep, and melt me so
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                        Ah me!
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Before I see another day,
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My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
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When I was well, I wished to live,
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No pleasure now, and no desire.
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Alone, I cannot fear to die.

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