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Claude to Eustace
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant youIt is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, canSpeak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents toStep from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vainConscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tisSong, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly.