Retrospect

“Backward,” he said, “dear heart, I like to look To those half-spring, half-winter days, when first We drew together, ere the leaf-buds burst. Sunbeams were silver yet, keen gusts yet shook The boughs. Have you remembered that kind book That for our sake Galeotto’s part rehearsed, (The friend of lovers,--this time blessed, not cursed!) And that best hour, when reading we forsook?”

She, listening, wore the smile a mother wears At childish fancies needless to control; Yet felt a fine, hid pain with pleasure blend. Better it seemed to think that love of theirs, Native as breath, eternal as the soul, Knew no beginning, could not have an end.