And yet in one fair woman beauty, youth, And passion were united, and her love Was framed about his likeness. Some, forsooth, May shift their changeful worship as they rove, Or clowns or princes; but her fancy slept, Dreaming upon that picture which she kept, A secret pain and pleasance. With what strife Men sought her love she wist not, for the prize Was not for them. She lived a duteous life. ’Twas something thus to let her constant eyes Feed on his face, to hear his name,—to know He lived, had walked those paths, had loved her so. There is a painting of a youthful monk Who sits within a walled and cloistered nook, His breviary closed, and listens, sunk In day-dreams, to a viol,—with a look Of strange regret fixed on two pairing doves, Who find their fate and simple natural loves. Yet bonds of gold, linked hands, and chancel vows, Even spousal beds, do not a marriage make. When such things chain the soul that never knows Love’s mating, little vantage shall it take, Wandering with alien feet throughout the wide, Hushed temple, over those who pine outside! So this young wife forecast her horoscope And found its wedded lines of little worth, Yet owned not to herself what hopeless hope Or dumb intent made green her spot of earth. So passed three changeless years, as such years be; At last the old lord died, and left her free, The mistress of his rank and broad estate, In honor of her constancy. Then life Rushed back; she saw her beauty grown more great, Ripened as if a summer field were rife With grain, the harvester neglectful, since Hers was no mean desire that sought a prince, Eager to make his birth and bloom her own, Or reign a wanton favorite. But she thought, “I might have loved and clung to him alone, Am fairer than he knew me; yet, if aught Of rarity make sweet my hair and lips, What sweetness hath the honey that none sips?” After her time of mourning she grew bold, And said, “Once let me look upon his face! The Queen will take no harm if I behold What all the world can see.” She left her place, And with a kinsman, at a palace rout, Followed the long line passing in and out Before the dais. The Prince’s eyes and hers Met like the clouds that lighten. In a breath Swift memory flamed between them, as, when stirs No wind, and the dark sky is still as death, One lance of living fire is hurled across; Then comes the whirlwind, and the forests toss! Yet as she bent her beauteous shoulders down, And heard the kindly greeting of the Queen, He spoke such words as one who wears a crown Speaks, and no more; and with a low, proud mien She murmured answer, from the presence past Lightly, nor any look behind her cast.