She had brought her friend with her. She had at heart To win his homage for the unknown art Of this dead alien priest of Italy, This lover of the earth, and sea, and sky; And, reading there and talking in that mood Which comes of happiness and youthful blood So near akin to sorrow, their discourse Had touched on human change and pain's remorse Amid the eternal greenness of the spring; And, when they came to part, there had seemed to ring A note of trouble in Griselda's voice, A sigh as if in grief for human joys, An echo of unspoken tenderness, Which caused the Prince to hold her hand in his One little moment longer than was right, When they had shaken hands and bid good night. And so he wrote that evening on the spur Of the first tender impulse of the hour A sonnet to Griselda, a farewell It seemed to be, yet also an appeal-- Perhaps a declaration; who shall say Whether the thought which lightened into day, Between the sorrowing accents of each line, Was more despair or hope which asked a sign? "Farewell," it said, "although nor seas divide Nor kingdoms separate, but a single street, The sole sad gap between us, scarce too wide For hands to cross, and though we needs must meet Not in a year, a month, but just to-morrow, When the first happy instinct of our feet Bears us together,--yet we part in sorrow, Bidding good-bye, as though we would repeat Good-byes for ever. There are gulfs that yawn Between us wide with time and circumstance, Deep as the gulf which lies 'twixt dead and dead. The day of promise finds no second dawn: See, while I speak, the pressure of our hands Fades slowly from remembrance, and is fled, And our weak hearts accept their fate. Nay, nay, We meet again, but never as to-day."