midnight
If in this heart a hope be dear , That sound shall charm it forth again ; If in those eyes there lurk a tear , ` Twill flow and cease to burn my brain . ' '' ` And how natural , Margaret , it is for the man steeped in love as I am to search out consolation amid the sweet concord of poetry . And so seeking the thought attuned to mine , I also say : '' ` But let the strain be wild and deep , Nor let the notes of joy be first ; I tell thee , minstrel , I must weep , Or else this heavy heart will burst ; For it hath been by sorrow nursed , And ached in sleepless silence long ; And now 't is doomed to know the worst And break at once -- or yield to song . ' '' ` My writing is usually over at midnight , and when I have returned from the corner , where I post the letter , I sit me down in the darkness to ponder on what I have composed . How dull it seems to me then ; how poorly expressed these sentiments too deep for words of mine , and not always within range of such poetry as I can find ! Moods are so fleeting , too ; some tender thought passes over me and for a moment I am lost in the rare atmosphere of mountain-tops to which it summons me . When I come to tell of this magic wrought by your innocent witchery , I find it quite impossible to explain , as the essence of my heavenly flight is all so poetic and strange a mere mortal like myself can not interpret the feeling .