The poem
So often in the mid of night I wake me in my bed With utter panic of affright To find my feet are dead; And pace the floor to easy my pain And make them live again.
The folks at home are so discreet; They see me walk and walk To keep the blood-flow in my feet, And though they never talk I've heard them whisper: 'Mother may Have them cut off some day.'
Cut off my feet! I'd rather die . . . And yet the years of pain, When in the darkness I will lie And pray to God in vain, Thinking in agony: Oh why Can doctors not annul our breath In honourable death?