Holding her in her maidhood's serious prime Well pleased from his cold eyes to move apart, And in her humble fortunes dwell secure. Indeed, what was she?--a poor soldier's girl, Merely a tenant's daughter. Times were changed, And life's bright web had sadder colors in 't: That most sweet gentle lady--rest her soul!-- Shrunk to an epitaph beside her lord's, And six lines shorter, which was all a shame; Gaunt Richard heir; that other at earth's end, (The younger son that was her sweetheart once,) Fighting the Spaniards, getting slain perchance; And all dear old-time uses quite forgot. Slowly, unnoted, like the creeping rust That spreads insidious, had estrangement come, Until at last, one knew not how it fell, And little cared, if sober truth were said, She and the father no more climbed the hill To Twelfth Night festival or May-day dance, Nor commerce had with any at The Towers. Yet in a formless, misty sort of way The girl had place in Wyndham's mind--the girl, Why, yes, beshrew him! it was even she Whom his soft mother had made favorite of, And well-nigh spoiled, some dozen summers gone. Perhaps because dull custom made her tame, Or that she was not comely in the bud, Her sweetness halting like a tardy May That wraps itself in mist, and seems not fair, For this or finer reason undivined, His thought she touched not, and was glad withal When she did note how others took his eye And wore rue after. Thus was her white peace Undarkened till, it so befell, these two Meeting as they a hundred times had met On hill-path or at crossing of the weir, Her beauty broke on him like some rare flower That was not yesterday. Ev'n so the Spring Unclasps the girdle of its loveliness Abruptly, in the North here: long the drifts Linger in hollows, long on bough and briar No slight leaf ventures, lest the frost's keen tooth Nip it, and then all suddenly the earth Is nought but scent and bloom. So unto him Griselda's grace unclosed. Where lagged his wit That guessed not of the bud that slept in stem, Nor hint had of the flower within the bud? If so much beauty had a tiger been, 'T had eaten him! In all the wave-washed length Of rocky Devon where was found her like For excellence of wedded red and white? Here on that smooth and sunny field, her cheek, The hostile hues of Lancaster and York Did meet, and, blending, make a heavenly truce, This were indeed a rose a king might wear Upon his bosom. By St. Dunstan, now, Himself would wear it. Then by seeming chance Crossed he her walks, and stayed her with discourse Devised adroitly; spoke of common things At first--of days when his good mother lived, If 't were to live, to pass long dolorous hours