Our dear church spire seem’d soon to mount the hill,
Our home to reach around a slow-turn’d rock,—
And all stood still with Haydn. Chill as ice,
My hot cheek felt my sister’s kiss then, then my father’s,
And then bewilder’d, as from out a dream,
At last I woke.
And what a dawn was that!
As if the sun had drawn the earth to itself,
I dwelt in central light; and heaven, high heaven—
Could feel some rays, perhaps, was touch’d by them,