My Cancer Cure

 "A year to live," the Doctor said;
"There is no cure," and shook his head.

Ah me! I felt as good as dead.

Yet quite resigned to fate was I,
Thinking: "Well, since I have to die
'Twill be beneath the open sky.
" 

And so I sought a wildsome wood
Wherein a lonely cabin stood,
And doomed myself to solitude,
And there was no one I would see:
Each morn a farmer brought to me
My food and hung it on a tree.
 

Six eggs he brought, and milk a quart,
Enough for wretches of my sort
Whose life is fated to be short.

At night I laid me on the round,
In robe of buffalo wrapped round .
 .
 .

'Twas strange that I should sleep so sound.
 

The farmer man I seldom saw;
I pierced my eggs and sucked them raw;
Sweet mil refreshed my ravaged maw.

So slowly days and weeks went by,
And always I would wonder why
I did not die.
 .
 .
 I did not die.
 

Thus brooding on my grievous lot
The world of men I fast forgot.

And in the wildwood friends I sought.

The brook bright melodies would sing,
The groves with feathered rapture ring,
And bring me strange, sweet comforting.
 .
 .
 .
 

Then all at once I knew that I
Miraculously would not die:
When doctors fail let Nature try.

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