One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much.
“In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him,
“My soul must know if it should praise or plead.
A year from now, we two must meet once more.
We cannot talk, and yet we may commune
While I stand silent at the cloister bars.
Then if your wedded life afford you joy—
I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers;
If else than this, bring but the wilted stems
Of these I give you now.”
Then soon had pass’d
The last vague hours that saw me part from all.
I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:—
The organ moaning sweetly far away;
The people whispering low amid the aisles;
My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time;
The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me;
Doretta, and my father, still and sad;
And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.