III

And she our Queen—­ah, who shall tell what hours
She bode his coming in her palace-towers,
Unmated she in all the land alone? 
’Twas yours, O youths and maids, to clasp and kiss;
Desiring and desired ye had your bliss: 
The Queen she sat upon her loveless throne. 
Sleeping she saw his face, but could not find
Its phantom’s phantom when she waked, nor wind
About her finger one gold hair of his.

Often when evening sobered all the air,
No doubt but she would sit and marvel where
He tarried, by the bounds of what strange sea;
And peradventure look at intervals
Forth of the windows of her palace walls,
And watch the gloaming darken fount and tree;
And think on twilight shores, with dreaming caves
Full of the groping of bewildered waves,
Full of the murmur of their hollow halls.

As flowers desire the kisses of the rain,
She his, and many a year desired in vain: 
She waits no more who waited long enow. 
Nor listeth he to wander any more
Who went as go the winds from sea to shore,
From shore to sea who went as the winds go. 
The winds do seek a place of rest; the flowers
Look for the rain; but in a while the showers
Come, and the winds lie down, their wanderings o’er.

ANGELO.

Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their horns
Averted from the sun; seven moons, old moons,
Westward their sun-averted horns had set;
Since Angelo had brought his young bride home,
Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan halls. 
And much the folk had marvelled on that day
Seeing the bride how young and fair she was,
How all unlike the groom; for she had known
Twenty and five soft summers woo the world,
He twice as many winters take ’t by storm. 
And in those half-an-hundred winters,—­ay,
And in the summer’s blaze, and blush of spring,
  And pomp of grave and grandiose autumntides,—­
Full many a wind had beat upon his heart,
Of grief and frustrate hope full many a wind,
And rains full many, but no rains could damp
The fuel that was stored within; which lay
Unlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch,
Until a chance spark fall’n from Lucia’s eyes
Kindled the fuel, and the fire was love: 
Not such as rises blown upon the wind,
Goaded to flame by gusts of phantasy,
But still, and needing no replenishment,
Unquenchable, that would not be put out.

Albeit the lady Lucia’s bosom lacked
The ore had made her heart a richer mine
Than earth’s auriferous heart unsunned; from her
Love went not out, in whom there was no love. 
Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bit
Her kind lord’s bosom with its stinging frost. 
Because he loved the fields and forests, made
Few banquetings for highborn winebibbers,
Eschewed the city and led no sumptuous life,
She, courtly, sneered at his uncourtliness,
Deeming his manners of a bygone mode. 
And for that he was gentle overmuch,
And overmuch forbearant, she despised,
Mocked, slighted, taunted him, and of her scorn
Made a sharp shaft to wound his life at will. 
She filled her cup with hate and bade him drink,
And he returned it brimming o’er with love.