True love has life eternal, infinite.
Complete within itself, and craving naught,
It needs no future far, nor outlet vast,
Nor aught to feel or touch in time or space.
A sense within, itself its own reward,
It waits not on return. For it, to love
Is better than to be loved, better far
To be a God than man.
At least, my love
More further’d me than Haydn. With all I long’d
And all I toil’d, Doretta was the one
Who could the best succeed in aiding him.
For she at home had dwelt, knew household ways;
And I was but a bungler, knew them not.
And so to me was mainly given the task,
To fan him while he slept. But, when he woke,
Although his lips would move with no complaint,
Nor eyes would glance for other than myself,
I could not do for him as then could she.
For she would turn his pillow, tell him tales,
Bring books and pictures, just what pleas’d him most.
But, ah, to me those patient eyes of his
Appear’d such holy things! My deeds were hush’d:
I did not dare disturb the silence there.
It could not all have been mere selfishness;
Yet I to look at him was all content.