This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden, yet bright;
But must it never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away—
With the first dream that comes, with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
Kennedy folded up the sonnet and its notation, and, without a word, turned from Doyle and looked about the room in which we were, a little reception-room.