THE BLAMELESS PRINCE
Nor with his own intent; and that, despite
Its clear repose, he somehow longed to find
The lower world, starve, hunger, and be fed
With joy and sorrow, sweet and bitter bread,—
For all these things the Prince loved not the Queen
With that sufficience which alone can take
A rapture in itself and rest serene;
Yet knew not what his life lacked that should make
It worth to live,—our custom has such art
To dull the craving of the famished heart,—
Perchance had never known it, but a light
Flashed in his path and lit a fiery train
About him; else, day following day, and night
By night, through years his soul had felt no pain,
No triumph, but had shared the common lull,
Been all it seemed, as blameless, true, and dull.
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
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