“’Tis midnight, my darling—the house is so lonely.”
“If it is not midnight, it might almost be, it is so dismal,” soliloquized Thea, with a sigh, as she jotted down the first line and proceeded:
“All, all are asleep but me.
I waken to weep—”
“That is not very accurate, as I have not been asleep yet, but it is poetical license,” murmured Thea, as she scribbled some more words:
—“Ah, beloved, if only,
If only I were with thee!”
The tears rushed to the blue eyes, and a smothered sob came from her throat, so passionately real was her aspiration. A moment’s pause, and the little pencil went on:
“But the swift hours are bearing thee further away,
The swift hours whose flight my poor heart can not stay!