Griselda listened. In her heart there stirred A strange unconscious pleasure at each word, Which made the sunshine brighter and the sky More blue, more tender in its sympathy. The hills of the Campagna crowned with snow Moved her and touched, she knew not why nor how. The solemn beauty of the world; the fate Of all things living, vast and inchoate Yet clothed with flowers; the soul's eternal dream Of something still beyond; the passionate whim Of every noble mind for something good, Which should assuage its hunger with new food; The thrill of hope, the pulse of happiness, The vague half-conscious longing of the eyes-- All these appealed to her, and seemed to lie In form and substance under the blue sky, Filling the shadows of the Sabine Hills As with a presence, till her natural ills, Transfigured through a happy mist of tears, Gave place to hopes yet hardly dreamed as hers. And still Lord L. talked calmly on, and she Listened as to the voice of prophecy, Nursing the pressure which the Prince's hand Had left in hers, nor cared to understand. From this day forth, I say, a tender mood Possessed them both scarce conscious and unwooed, Even in the Prince, her elder and a man. At least Griselda had no thought nor plan Beyond the pleasure of a friendship dear To all alike, Lord L., the Prince, and her: No plan but that the day would be more sweet, More full of meaning, if they chanced to meet; And this chanced every day. The Prince was kind Beyond all kindness, and Lord L. could find No words to speak his thanks he thus should be The cicerone of their company.