"Koennt' fuehlen je das Glueck das ich wuerd nennen mein
Haett' ich nur Dich allein! Haett' ich nur Dich, nur Dich allein!"
Then suddenly in wild rapture she broke from the German, repeating the
refrain in English--
". . . The rapture that would be my own
If I had you . . . if I had you . . . you."
Piercing sweet it ended, filled with tenderness. Just you, you, you,
going on far across the moon-lit waters into infinity. Dan walked to
the lee of the bridge and with hands on the dodger's ridge, leaned
forward, peering bard and straight to the rim of the sea.
For every heart there is a song, and for every song a heart; for this
earth is not so big that the dreams, the passion of some song-maker,
humble or not, may not strike a responsive chord, at the other end of
the world, it may be. And this for Dan; this simple love song with its
swelling iterations. It awakened sleeping poetry in the heart of the
young commander, awakened a tenderness long hidden under the rough
exterior of a tumultuous life.
There was no mistaking the identity of the singer, no mistaking those
deep, full notes, vibrant, rounded, and so melodious. To whom was she
singing? Could a woman sing like that, sing as Miss Howland sang, to
no one? Impersonally? Dan turned his face down at the group.
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