He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol[62] of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there;—
’Tis then that on his face I look—
His beautiful but thoughtful face—
And like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet familiar meanings trace,—
4. Remembering a thousand things