BEHIND THE rusty iron gratings of the opposite window sits a girl, dark and plain of face, like a boat stranded on a sand-bank when the river is shallow in the summer. I come back to my room after my day's work, and my tired eyes are lured to her. She seems to me like a lake with its dark lonely waters edged by moonlight. She has only her window for freedom: there the morning light meets her musings, and through it her dark eyes like lost stars travel back to their sky.
ART THOU abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep to-night. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend?
