They told me it might bring my death; but oh!
Have I not borne enough to merit life?
How had I counted all these weeks and days,
Up to the hour we two should meet again,
And I should find how all my prayers were heard,
And heaven had made my Haydn blest!—
He came,
Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?—
He brought the wilted stems.—
I do not know.