E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars,
My lips would check him, saying, gently, then,
“But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.”
And thus a habit grew that our two lives
Dwelt there like friends, made separate by war,
Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand,
And now a kerchief, but who never speak.
And yet I cannot say love never spoke.—
We did not mean it; but I think that love
May tell its tales, unconscious of the fact,