And thus the winter passed in happiness If not in love. I leave to each to guess What name 'twere best to give it, for to some Who judge such things by simple rule of thumb, 'Twill seem impossible they thus should meet Day after day in palace, temple, street, Beneath the sun of heaven or in the shade Of those old gardens by the cypress made, Or on their horses drinking in the wind Of the Campagna, and with care behind, Left to take vengeance upon poor Lord L., Some furlongs back a solemn sentinel, Or in the twilight slowly stealing home Towards the hundred cupolas of Rome, To greet the new-born moon and so repeat Old Tuscan ditties, tender, wise, and sweet, To the light clatter of their horse-hoof's chime In echoing answer of their terza-rhyme-- 'Twill seem, I say, to some impossible That all this was not love. Yet, sooth to tell, Easter had come and gone, and yet 'twas true No word of love had passed between the two. The fact is, after the first halcyon hour When she had met the Prince and proved his power To move her inmost soul, Griselda made This compact with her heart no less than head, Being a woman of much logic sense, And knowing all, at least by inference: She was resolved that, come what evil might On her poor heart, the right should still be right, And not a hair's-breadth would she swerve from this, Though it should cost her soul its happiness. She would not trifle longer, nor provide The Prince with pretext for his further pride, Or grant more favour than a friendship given Once and for all, in this world as in heaven. This she indeed could offer, but, if more Were asked, why then, alas! her dream was o'er. I think no actual covenant had passed In words between them either first or last, But that the Prince, though puzzled and perplexed, Had drawn a just conclusion from his text, And read her meaning, while the hazard made, Of certain idle words at random said, Had sapped his confidence, and served to show If speech were wise, 'twas wiser to forego. Once too he wrote a sonnet. They had spent An afternoon (it was in early Lent) At that fair angle of the city wall Which is the English place of burial, A poet's pilgrimage to Shelley's tomb,-- The holiest spot, Griselda thought, in Rome,-- A place to worship in, perhaps to pray, At least to meditate and spend the day.