Long after that, our Haydn found no chance
To talk with me; and this, I know not why.
My father—I could never find out why
My father aught surmised: we walk’d alone,
Doretta, Haydn, I—my father though
From this time seem’d less trustful; not that he
Loved less his favorite, Haydn; but we both
Were still so young. And he, poor man, who earn’d
With all his toil not much, had form’d a plan
(As one might form a rosary, stringing beads,
Then spending all his hours in counting them),
Where hung bright hopes, but strung on flimsy thread,—
Mere lint, brush’d off a worldling’s flattery,
That I for wealth should wed. So, like a gem
For future pride, he lock’d me up in school.