And then they added: “Might it not be found
That loss of my love was the very means
Design’d by Providence for Haydn’s good?”
To this I could but answer that “his love
Seem’d Providential too, a holy thing.”
They only frown’d, and said: “The Prince of Ill
Came oft robed like an angel of the light;—
Why not like love?—The only holy thing,
Such proven to be, was Christ. And what of Him
When moved by love?—of His great sacrifice!—
And did I really prize this Haydn so,
Would love prompt naught in me!”
And thus they talk’d,
Till, welcoming doubt, my faith succumb’d to it;
And all the love once making me so proud,
Whose growth, I thought, would be so sweet and fair,
Stung like a very thistle in my soul;
Each breath of theirs would blow its prickles keen,
And sow its pestering seedlets far and wide
O’er every pleasing prospect of my life.