“My love for Nature is as old as I; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her, Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew,[3] Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seem’d to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between; For daily hope fulfill’d, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.”[4] Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, “I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world, A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world.” “Parson,” said I, “you pitch the pipe too low: But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his: Tho’ if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear[5] other music: yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream?” I ask’d him half-sardonically. “Give? Give all thou art,” he answer’d, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; “I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear Her lightest breaths: her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always thro’ the summer land; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.” Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarr’d; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem’d A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness: howsoe’er it was, He scarcely hit my humour, and I said:— “Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left?[6] But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein: I have I think—Heaven knows—as much within; Have or should have, but for a thought or two, That like a purple beech[7] among the greens Looks out of place: ’tis from no want in her: It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, Or something of a wayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.”