From this time onward no one check’d me more,
Attending Haydn. All the household heard
My sire “could trust his child to be discreet”;
And e’en Doretta too had something learn’d
That made her caution more than half relax.
Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly by
In which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start,
E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars,
My lips would check him, saying, gently, then,
“But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.”
And thus a habit grew that our two lives
Dwelt there like friends, made separate by war,
Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand,
And now a kerchief, but who never speak.
And yet I cannot say love never spoke.—
We did not mean it; but I think that love
May tell its tales, unconscious of the fact,
For who is conscious when God touches him?—
But littlest acts there were; yet spirits read
From signs too fine for measurements of space;
Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were;
And yet what words of love yield more than these?
They hit the sense of love, but fail of sense
Where nothing loving waits to take the hint.
This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how.
And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth,
We told our secrets, and none knew of them.