And Haydn then, when found, appear’d so sad.
“Ah,” sigh’d he, “we two souls were fitted so
To match each other. Here, where jars the world,
And all goes contrary, where every sun
That ripes this, withers that; and every storm
That brings refreshment here, sends deluge there,
We two, exceptions to the general rule,
Like living miracles (is love fulfill’d
A miracle indeed?), seem’d born to draw
The self-same tale of weal or woe from each.
I saw but last night, darling, in my dreams,
Our spirits journeying through this under gloom:
And hand in hand they walk’d; and over them,
As over limner’d seraphs, did there hang
A halo, love reflected. By its glow
The gloom about grew brightness: while far off,
In clearest lines, the path passed up and on.—
Pauline, but heed me: once again, I pray
(If ever once I pray’d to God above),
Blot not this light from all my future life.”