aught else beside
The outward seeming, 'tis enough for him
That she is gay and beautiful, and smiles.
He has a nature small and limited
By sight, and sense, and self, and his desires;
A heart as open as the day to all
That touches his quick impulse, when it costs
Him naught of sacrifice. The needy poor
Flock to his castle for the careless gift
Of falling dole, but his esquire is faint
From his exacting service, night and day
His Lady Gwendolaine is satiate
With costly gems, palfreys, and samite thick
With threads of gold and silver, but the sweet
Heart subtleties and fair observances
Are lost in the _of course_ of married life.
He sees, too quickly, does she fail to smile,
But never sees the shadow in her eyes
His hounds are beaten till they scarce draw breath,
And then caressed beyond the worth of hounds.
His vassals know not if, from day to day,
He will approve, or strike them with a curse.
His humours are the byword of the court,
And, were it not for his good-heartedness,
His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms,
Men would speak lightly of him in disdain;
He is so often in a stormy rage,
Or supplicating humour to atone,--
Too petty to repent in very truth,
Too light and yielding in repentance, when
His temper's force is spent, for dignity
Of truest knighthood. No one feels his faults
So quickly, with such flushing of regret
And shame, as Gwendolaine. But she is wife,
His honour is her own, and she would hide
From all the world, and even from herself,
His pettiness and narrowness of soul.
So she forgets, or doth pretend forget,
Where he has failed, save when he passes bounds;
Then her swift scorn--a piercing force he dreads--
Flashes upon him like a probing lance,
To silence merriment if it be coarse,
To hush his wrath when it is violent.

Though powerful to check, she ne'er could change
The underflow and current of their life.
In the first years, gone by, ere she had grown
A woman of the world, she had essayed
To stem the tide of shallow vanity,
To realise her girlhood's high ideal,
And make her home more reverent, and more fine.
Sir Torm had overborne her words with jest
And noisy laughter, vowing she would learn
Romance and sweet simplicity were well
For harper minstrel, singing in the hall,
But not for courtiers living in the world.
Once, when she faced the thought of motherhood,--
For some brief days of sweet expectancy
Never fulfilled for her,--she was aware
Of thirst for living water,