It seem’d a rare and royal friendship, ours,
The very sovereignty of sympathy;
Begun so early too—mere lads we were—
And now I never look back there again
But, swept like shading from a hero’s face
In pictures,—those of Rembrandt,—all the school
Appear in hues of dim uncertainty
Surrounding Elbert, shining in relief.
Not strange was it; too tender was I made;
Nor oft had felt a touch save that of age,
When moulding all my methods to its own.
Kept back from contact with rough boys at play,
Till sensitive and shrinking as a girl,
A hint of their regard could master me;
No maiden, dreaming of her wedding day,
Could wake at morning with more trembling hopes
Than I, when looking forward to my school.
But when I reach’d it, not a Bluebeard more
Could have disturb’d a trusting bride’s romance.