“Backward,” he said, “dear heart, I like to look
To those half-spring, half-winter days, when first
We drew together, ere the leaf-buds burst.
Sunbeams were silver yet, keen gusts yet shook
The boughs. Have you remembered that kind book
That for our sake Galeotto’s part rehearsed,
(The friend of lovers,--this time blessed, not cursed!)
And that best hour, when reading we forsook?”
She, listening, wore the smile a mother wears
At childish fancies needless to control;
Yet felt a fine, hid pain with pleasure blend.
Better it seemed to think that love of theirs,
Native as breath, eternal as the soul,
Knew no beginning, could not have an end.