Soon after that,
One day, while troubled much, I met by chance,
My Haydn, half restored, outside his room.
For once, he sat alone; and, seeing me,—
“Why, friend, what accident is this?” he ask’d.
“In tears, too, tears?—Tell now, what sullen storm
Has left such heavy drops? Did it not know
That these too tender lids might droop? if droop,
What rare views they might close to some one here?—
What can have happen’d?
“Why not speak to me?—
You seem the very statue of yourself.—
Why, what has chill’d you so?—Not I?—Not I?—
Pauline, I know, if I to you were cold,
A certain rosy face with opening lips
Could come with power to bring me summer air,
Dispelling sweetly my most wintry wish,
Despite myself!—Why will you trust me not?”
And then I spoke to him. I hinted first
My moods were odd; not moods for him to mind.
“Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a family
Where all the children grew so very odd,—
Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste.
Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they,
And not enough of summer in their home.—
I know that you are not so very odd
That you would keep apart from one you love.
And I, can I not hope that I am one?”