Had I regarded her, my father’s wish,
That suitor’s choice?—Nay, I had thought of none,
None saving Haydn.
Then I ask’d again,
Could this be true—the thing my sister said,—
Could aught so sweet as Haydn’s love exude
From moods, all mushroom’d by disease? I thought
How marvellously throng’d with strange weird shapes
Deep halls of fancy loom, when lighted up
By fires of fever; how, with trust complete,