June 1st.
I sat to-night by the river again. It was moonlight, and the water lay shimmering. A little yacht, gleaming with lights, sped by; it was very close, and I saw a group of people on it, I heard them laughing; and one of them—a woman—was singing.
O God, what a voice! So rich, so exquisite! It soared upward and died again, quivering like the reflection of the stars on the water. It went in—in to the very depths of my soul; it loosed all the woe of my spirit, it made the tears gush into my eyes. And then it died away, away in the distance; and I sat with my hands clasped.
Sail on—sail on—oh heavenly voice! Far-off vision of brightness and beauty! Your lot is not my lot.
—There is something within me that weeps yet, at the echo of that music. Oh, what would I not give for music! How much of my bitterness, how many of my sorrows have melted into tears at one strain!
And I can not have it! Oh, you who do have it, do you know what you have? Oh beautiful voice, do you hear yourself?
All things else I can make for myself—friendship and love—nature and books and prayer; all things but music!
Can you not hear that voice dying—dying—“over the rolling waters”?