At last I woke and quickly drew
The accursed sheet from my breast—
Burning it with a ready hand—
And gently sank to rest.
I wrote another, whose tender words
Were soft as the ripple of a stream;
And thought what a contrast it would be
To the letter she read in my dream!
And my darling greatly wonders
Why my letters with tenderness teem,
Since I have never told her
Of the letter she read in my dream.
