How day by day those young hearts fed amain
Upon the food of lovers, till—they loved.
Beneath the mists of duty and degree
A warmth of passion crept deliciously
About the twain; and there, within the gleam
Of those gray languid eyes, his nearing fate
Seemed to the one a far, unquiet dream.
So when the heralds said, “All things await
Your princely coming,” the glad summons broke
Upon him like a harsh bell’s jangling stroke,