They talked of the strange beauty of the spot,
The light that glinted through the ancient trees,
Their own young lives, the Prince’s future lot;
Then jested with false laughs. Like tangled bees,
Each other and themselves they sweetly stung;
They sung fond songs, and mocked the words they sung.
At last he hung his picture by a chain
About her neck, and on it graved the date.
Her merry eyes grew soft with tender pain;
She heard him sigh, “Alas, by what rude fate