'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising—Haply I think on thee; and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love—'
He broke off, and closed the book. “'For thy sweet love,'” he repeated.
“You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those
lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly
song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,—a little
poem of Frank L. Stanton's.” He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a
light baritone:
'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong,
For God gives grief with the gift of song,
And poverty, too; but your love is more—'
Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. “What an ass I was! As if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!”
“Oh, never be disheartened,” said Larcher. “Your time is to come; you'll have your 'whack at life' yet.”
“It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two of the dreams of youth—the dreams an unhappy lad consoled himself with.”
“What were they?” inquired Larcher.
“What were they not, that is fine and pleasant? I had my share of diverse
ambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, in
Longfellow:
'For a boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'”