Though midst her guardsmen, as they speeded back, The wont of royalty maintained her still, Where grief had been were ruin now and rack! The firm earth reeled about, nor could her will Make it seem stable, while her soul went through Her wedded years in desperate review. The air seemed full of lies; the realm, unsound; Her courtiers, knaves; her maidens, good and fair, Most shameless bawds; her children clung around Like asps, to sting her; from the kingdom’s heir, Shuddering, she turned her face,—his features took A shining horror from his father’s look. Along her city streets the thrifty crowd, As the Queen passed, their loving reverence made. “’Tis false! they love me not!” she cried aloud; So flung her from her chariot, and forbade All words, but waved her ladies back, and gained Her inmost room, and by herself remained. “We have been alone these years, and knew it not,” She said; “now let us on the knowledge thrive!” So closed the doors, and all things else forgot Than her own misery. “I cannot live And bear this death,” she said, “nor die, the more To meet him,—and that woman gone before!” Thus with herself she writhed, while midnight gloomed, As lone as any outcast of us all; And once, without a purpose, as the doomed Stare round and count the shadows on the wall, Unclasped a poet’s book which near her lay, And turned its pages in that witless way, And read the song, some wise, sad man had made, With bitter frost about his doubting heart. “What is this life,” it plained, “what masquerade Of which ye all are witnesses and part? ’Tis but a foolish, smiling face to wear Above your mortal sorrow, chill despair; “To mock your comrades and yourselves with mirth That feeds the care ye cannot drive away; To vaunt of health, yet hide beneath the girth Impuissance, fell sickness, slow decay; To cloak defeat, and with the rich, the great, Applaud their fairer fortunes as their mate; “To brave the sudden woe, the secret loss, Though but to-morrow brings the open shame; To pay the tribute of your caste, and toss Your last to him that’s richer save in name; To judge your peers, and give the doleful meed To crime that’s white beside your hidden deed; “To whisper love, where of true love is none,— Desire, where lust is dead; to live unchaste, And wear the priestly cincture;—last, to own, When the morn’s dream is gone and noontide waste, Some fate still kept ye from your purpose sweet, Down strange, circuitous paths it drew your feet!” Thus far she read, and, “Let me read no more,” She clamored, “since the scales have left mine eyes And freed the dreadful gift I lacked before! We are but puppets, in whatever guise They clothe us, to whatever tune we move; Albeit we prate of duty, dream of love.