Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree. Each of them young,--each of them passionate lovers of Nature,--each brimming with hopes, and equipped with commanding intellect,--they formed the three-fold chord, with its tonic, dominant and mediant, of which is born all music.... It was nearly eight o'clock when Coleridge parted from the Wordsworths at the gate of Alfoxden. They were happily tired after some nine hours' rambling, and a serene joy lit up their faces, as of those who have passed through some enchanting experience,--who have touched at some oasis of sheer delight. Coleridge tried to frame his thoughts into words, as he strode homeward with his loose shambling gait, continually shifting from one side of the path to the other after his notorious "corkscrew" habit. The notes of the nightingale, poignantly sweet, echoed to him out of the woods,--and he would gladly have lingered to listen; but, instead, he thought-- Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes.--That strain again! Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well The evening star; and once, when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, And he beheld the Moon, and, hushed at once, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes, that swam with un-dropped tears, Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well!-- It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate joy! Once more farewell, Sweet Nightingale! Once more, my friends! farewell. Sara met him in the road with a despondent air. "Lloyd has gone," said she. "Gone! what, actually _gone_! Do you mean to say he has left us?" exclaimed Coleridge, horrorstruck. "He packed up his things and took leave of me," she replied; "it seems he hired a conveyance from Bristol to fetch him home." "Good Heavens!" cried her husband: and all the tranquil joy died out of his face; nothing but weariness, flabbiness and dejection remained. "Did he give no reason?" "O, he said things about the Wordsworths," replied Sara. "He thinks you have neglected him shamefully. So do I." And she shut her mouth with a snap.