We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste perfecit opus!' So, all smile-

I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay

And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off

To some safe bench behind, not letting go

The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick,

Like the Prior's niece. . . Saint Lucy, I would say,

And so all 's saved for me, and for the

Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for
this!

Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.

Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve

For each of the five pictures we require: It saves a model. So keep looking soMy serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!

How could you ever prick those per

fect ears,

The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,

And autumn grows, autumn in everything,

Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's
hand.

How strange now looks the life he makes us lead;

So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!
This chamber for example--turn your

head

[stand All that 's behind us! You don't under

Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak:

And that cartoon, the second from the door

-It is the thing, Love! so such things should be

Behold Madonna !-I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep-
Do easily, too-when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are
judge,

Who listened to the Legate's talk last week,

And just as much they used to say in France.

At any rate 't is easy, all of it!

No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past:

I do what many dream of all their lives, -Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,

And fail in doing. I could count twenty such

On twice your fingers, and not leave this

town,

Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,

(I know his name, no matter)---so much less!

Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.

There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,

Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt

This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine.

Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,

Reach many a time a heaven that's shut

to me,

Enter and take their place there sure enough,

Though they come back and cannot tell the world.

My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.

The sudden blood of these men! at a word

Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.

I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame

Or their praise either. Somebody remarks

Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,

Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?

Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what's a heaven for? All is silver

That arm is wrongly put--and there again-

A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, He means right-that, a child may understand.

Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight and the

stretch

Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?

Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,

We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think

More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you-oh, with the same perfect brow.

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,

Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,

And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,

This in the background, waiting on my work,

To crown the issue with a last reward! A good time, was it not, my kingly days? And had you not grown restless... but I know

"T is done and past; 't was right, my instinct said;

Too live the life grew, golden and not gray,

And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.

How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart.

The triumph was-to reach and stay there; since

I reached itere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your

hair's gold,

You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that: The Roman's is the better when you pray. But still the other's Virgin was his wife"

Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer

Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those ?) If really there was such a chance, so lost,

Is, whether you 're-not grateful-but more pleased.

Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!

This hour has been an hour! Another smile?

If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do you comprehend?

I mean that I should earn more, give

out.

The walls become illumined, brick from brick

Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,

That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside?

Must see you-you, and not with me? Those loans?

More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?

Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend ?

While hand and eye and something of a heart

Are left me, work 's my ware, and what's it worth?

I'll The

pay my fancy. Only let me sit

gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France,

One picture, just one more-the Virgin's

face.

Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them-that is, Michel AgnoloJudge all I do and tell you of its worth.

The very wrong to Francis!—it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied,

And built this house and sinned, and all is said.

My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.

They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died ;

And I have labored somewhat in my time

And not been paid profusely. Some good son

Paint my two hundred pictures-let him try!

No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes.

You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.

This must suffice me here. What would one have?

In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance

Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover-the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So-still they

V

Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Whom to please? You whisper “Beatrice."

While he mused and traced it and retraced it,

(Peradventure with a pen corroded Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for.

When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked,

Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma,

Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment,

Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle,

Let the wretch go festering through Florence)

Dante, who loved well because he hated. Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel.In there broke the folk of his Inferno. Says he "Certain people of import