For hours together, pausing not for aught,
The ringing strings within his harpsichord
Would seem to call toward form that formless force
Enrapturing so the spirit. When his moods
Would note Doretta not, nor waiting meals,
Nor sunset hues, nor moonlight at its full,
Nor e’en the striking of the midnight bell,
What could I think that he could care for me?
XI.
At last his illness came. How pale he lay!