"Through lonely summers, where the roses blow
Unsought, and shed their tangled sweets,
I sit and hark, or in the starry dark,
Or when the night-rain on the hill-side beats.
"Alone! But when the eternal summers flow
And refluent drown in song all moan,
Thy soul shall waste for its delight, and haste
Through heaven. And I shall be no more alone!"
"What a voice she sings with to-night!" said Marguerite. "It is stripped of all its ornamental disguises,—so slender, yet piercing!"
"A needle can pain like a sword-blade. There goes the moon in clouds.
Hark! What was that? A cry?" And he started to his feet.
"No," she said,—"it is only the wild music of the lake, the voices of shadows calling to shadows."
"There it is again, but fainter; the wind carries it the other way."
"It is a desolating wind."
"And the light on the land is like that of eclipse!"
He stooped and raised her and folded her in his arms.
"I have a strange, terrible sense of calamity, Mignonné!" he said.
"Let it strike, so it spare you!"