Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/305

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 275