II

With every morn their love grew tenderer,

      With every eve deeper and tenderer still;

He might not in house, field, or garden stir,

      But her full shape would all his seeing fill;

And his continual voice was pleasanter

      To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.