In that first glimpse each read the other’s heart; But not without a summoning of himself To judgment did the Prince forever part From truth and fealty. As he pondered, still With stronger voice Love claimed a debt unpaid, And youth’s hot pulses would not be gainsaid. She with a fierce, full gladness saw again Their broken threads of love begin to spin In one red strand, and let it guide her then, Whether it led to danger or to sin; And shortly, on the morrow, took the road, And gained her country-seat, and there abode. The Prince, a bright near morning, mounted horse, Garbed for the hunt, and left the town, and through The deep-pathed wood rode on a wayward course, With a set purpose in him,—though he knew It not, and let his steed go where it might; For this sole thought pursued him since that night:— “What recompense for me who have not sown The seed and reaped the harvest of my days? Youth passes like a bird; but love alone Makes wealth of riches, power of rank, men’s praise A goodly sound. Of such things have I aught? There is a foil to make their substance naught. “What were his gifts who made each lovely thing, Yet lacked the gift of love? or what the fame Of some dwarfed poet, whose numbers still we sing, If no fair woman trembled where he came? The beggar dying in ditch is not accurst If love once crowned him! Fate may do her worst. “For Age that erst has drawn the wine of love And filled its birth-cup to the jewelled brim, And, while it sparkled, held it high above, And drained it slowly, swiftly,—then, though dim Grow the blurred eyes, and comfort and desire Are but the ashes of their ancient fire, “Yet will it bide its exit in content, Remembering the past, nor grudge, with hoar And ravenous look, the youth we have not spent. No earthly sting has power to harm it more; It lived and loved, was young, and now is old, And life is rounded like a ring of gold.” Thereat with sudden rein the Prince wheeled horse, And sought a pathway that he long had known Yet shunned till now. Beside a water-course It led him for a winding league and lone; Then made a rugged circuit,—where the brook Down a steep ledge of rock its plunges took,— And ended at an open sward, the same Against whose edge the leaping cataract fell From those high cliffs. Five years ago he came To bury youth and love within that dell, And, as again he reached the spot he sought, Truth, fame, his child, the Queen, were all as naught. Dismounting then, he pushed afoot, between The alder saplings, to the outer wood, The grounds, the garden-walks, and found, unseen, A private door, nor tarried till he stood Within the threshold of my Lady’s room,— A shadowed nook, all stillness and perfume.