“Oh, good! And I shall make some music for it; will you tell it to me?”
“When?”
“Now, if you can remember it,” said Helen. “Can you?”
“If you wish it,” said Arthur, simply; “I wrote it two or three months ago, when the country was different from now.”
He fumbled in his pocket for some papers, and then in a low tone he read these words to the girl:
AT MIDNIGHT
The burden of the winter
The year haa borne too long,
And oh, my heart is weary
For a springtime song!
The moonbeams shrink unwelcomed
From the frozen lake;
Of all the forest voices
There is but one awake
I seek thee, happy streamlet
That murmurest on thy way,
As a child in troubled slumber
Still dreaming of its play;
I ask thee where in thy journey
Thou seeest so fair a sight,
That thou hast joy and singing
All through the winter night.
Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said, “I think that is beautiful, Arthur; but it is not what I want.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I should have liked it when you wrote it, but now the spring has come, and we must be happy. You have heard the springtime song.”