Methought that the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurled--
Down came the loud pedal, and the unrestrained cry swelled out across a bed of tritomas consuming in their own fires--
When I said I will sail to my love this night
On the other side of the world.
I have no music, but the voice drew. I waited till the end:
Oh, maid most dear, I am not here
I have no place apart--
No dwelling more on sea or shore,
But only in thy heart.
It seemed to me a poor life that had no more than that to do at eleven o'clock of a Tuesday forenoon. Then Miss Sichliffe suddenly lumbered through a French window in clumsy haste, her brows contracted against the light.
'Well?' she said, delivering the word like a spear-thrust, with the full weight of a body behind it.