With warmest sympathy—I bent
To stroke with soothing hand his brow,
He murmuring—“’Tis over now!—
And shall I tie the silken thread
Of my frail romance?” “Yes,” I said.—
He faintly smiled; and then, with brow
In kneading palm, as one in dread—
His tasselled cap pushed from his head;—
“‘Her voice’s music,’ I repeat,”
He said,—“’twas sweet—O passing sweet!—