Doretta in the year had grown so fair
That, in her first ripe flush of maidenhood,
I did not wonder, while I watch’d his eyes,
My Haydn’s eyes, that he could crave the fruit.
And intimate they were. Right merrily
Through all the house I heard their voices chime.
But me our Haydn did not seem to know;
So quiet was he, and reserved with me.
Yet all my heart would flutter like a bird’s
At his approach; and all my will fly off,
And, as if poised in air and not in me,
Leave half my words and ways without control,
Until I seem’d as if I prized him not.