That which as yet he knew not,—taught her love.
And he himself learned much. With what delight
He from her lips the half-forgotten words
Heard of Litvanian speech. New feelings rose
With each new-risen word like sparks from ashes.
Sweet were the names of family, of friendship,
And sweeter yet than all the name of love,
Which no word equals here on earth, but—country.
“Whence,” Kiejstut thought, “my daughters sudden change?
Where is her former mirth, her childish sports?