Not strange it seems that men ape childhood too,
And lisp—ah me!—minute the syllables,
Yet still too coarse for love’s ethereal sense!
IV.
As was her wont, at that time walk’d with us
Doretta fair, my sister, such an elf!
My pride and Haydn’s pet, whose merry tones
Would ring out, if our thoughts turn’d far from her,
Like bells that homeward lure the wind-blown bees,
And bring our flighty fancies back again.