In the gray morning, in the silent noon, }
In the soft twilight, by the sober moon, }
In those forsaken rooms, in that immense saloon; }
And he, now fond of that seclusion grown,
There reads her letters, and there writes his own.
“Here none approach,” said he, “to interfere,
But I can think of my Cecilia here!”
But there did come—and how it came to pass 190
Who shall explain?—a mild and blue-eyed lass.—
It was the work of accident, no doubt— }