To think that it has come so far below,
Or feel that it has left so much above.
XLVII.
One night I found my father still more sad
Than was his wont. I knelt before him then,
And “O my father, why is this?” I ask’d.
But he said nothing. Then I question’d him:
And found the cause out. Haydn was the cause.
My father loved him so, as men love sons;
And long had hoped he might a son become.