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.