"Backward," he said, "dear heart I like to look
To those half-spring, half-winter days, when first
We drew together, ere the leaf-buds burst.
Sunbeams were silver yet, keen gusts yet shook
The boughs. Have you remembered that kind book,
That for our sake Galeotto's part rehearsed,
(The friend of lovers,—this time blessed, not cursed!)
And that best hour, when reading we forsook?"

She, listening, wore the smile a mother wears
At childish fancies needless to control;
Yet felt a fine, hid pain with pleasure blend.
Better it seemed to think that love of theirs,
Native as breath, eternal as the soul,
Knew no beginning, could not have an end.