The Prince knew That she was weeping, and a single sob Broke from her lips. She seemed her wounds to probe. "Yes, I have loved you, loved you from the first, The day we met at Terni, when you burst Like sunshine on the storm of my dark life-- You, wise and free--I, only the sad wife Of one you called a friend. The fault was mine And mine alone. In you there was no sin: You stood too far from me, too high above My woman's follies even to dream of love. There, do not answer. You were kind to me, Good, patient, wise--you could no other be-- But, oh! you never loved me."
Here again The Prince broke in protesting (but in vain): Her words were madness and his heart was hers. She would not listen nor control her tears-- "You never loved me. This one thought I hold In consolation of my manifold Deceits and errors. You at least are free From all deceptions and remorse and me:-- I cannot cause you sorrow, else it were Indeed too pitiful, too hard to bear."
She stooped and kissed his forehead reverently, As one would kiss a relic; and when he Still would have spoken, stopped him with a hand Laid on his lips, half-prayer and half-command. She would not let him speak. The prince, tho' mute, Now pleaded with his hands and pressed his suit With better eloquence, for this to her Seemed less a crime than speech. Her ignorant fear Had hardly fathomed yet the troubled sea On which her lot was cast thus dangerously. She only feared his words to prove him right; And these caresses in the dim still night Soothed and consoled her. They were too unreal, Too strange to her experience, quite to feel Or quite to question. She, with half-shut eyes, And face averted, ceased to feel surprise, And ceased to think. She was a child again, Caressed and fondled. She forgot her pain, And almost even his presence in the place. He was too near and could not see her face. Besides, Griselda loved him. Only once She made a silent protest with her hands, As one might make asleep, and in her dream Opened her eyes, and seemed to question him With the pathetic instinct as of doom. The Prince in rapture judged his hour was come.
Alas! poor Prince. If thou hadst had thy bliss, I would not then have grudged thy happiness, Thine nor Griselda's. Happiness is not A merchandise men buy or leave unbought And find again. It is a wild bird winging Its way through heaven, in joyous circles ringing, Aloft, at its own will. Then, e'er we wist, It stooped and sat a moment on our wrist, And fondled with our fingers, and made play With jess and hood as if it meant to stay. And we, if we were wise and fortunate, And if the hour had been decreed of fate, Seized the glad bird and held it in our hand, And forced it to obey our least command, Knowing that never more, if not made sure, It would come again to voice, or sign, or lure.