I

Gr-r-r---there go, my heart's abhorrence!

Water your damned flower-pots, do!

If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,

God's blood, would not mine kill you!

5 What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?

Oh, that rose has prior claims---

Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?

Hell dry you up with its flames!

II.

At the meal we sit together:

10 _Salve tibi!_ I must hear

Wise talk of the kind of weather,

Sort of season, time of year:

_Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely

Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:

15 What's the Latin name for ``parsley''?_

What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?

III.

Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,

Laid with care on our own shelf!

With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,

20 And a goblet for ourself,

Rinsed like something sacrificial

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps---

Marked with L. for our initial!

(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

IV.

25 _Saint_, forsooth! While brown Dolores

Squats outside the Convent bank

With Sanchicha, telling stories,

Steeping tresses in the tank,

Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,

30 ---Can't I see his dead eye glow,

Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?

(That is, if he'd let it show!)

V.

When he finishes refection,

Knife and fork he never lays

35 Cross-wise, to my recollection,

As do I, in Jesu's praise.

I the Trinity illustrate,

Drinking watered orange-pulp---

In three sips the Arian frustrate;

40 While he drains his at one gulp.

VI.

Oh, those melons? If he's able

We're to have a feast! so nice!

One goes to the Abbot's table,

All of us get each a slice.

45 How go on your flowers? None double

Not one fruit-sort can you spy?

Strange!---And I, too, at such trouble,

Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

VII.

There's a great text in Galatians,

50 Once you trip on it, entails

Twenty-nine distinct damnations,

One sure, if another fails:

If I trip him just a-dying,

Sure of heaven as sure can be,

55 Spin him round and send him flying

Off to hell, a Manichee?

VIII.

Or, my scrofulous French novel

On grey paper with blunt type!

Simply glance at it, you grovel

60 Hand and foot in Belial's gripe:

If I double down its pages

At the woeful sixteenth print,

When he gathers his greengages,

Ope a sieve and slip it in't?

IX.

65 Or, there's Satan!---one might venture

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave

Such a flaw in the indenture

As he'd miss till, past retrieve,

Blasted lay that rose-acacia

70 We're so proud of! _Hy, Zy, Hine ..._

'St, there's Vespers! _Plena grati

Ave, Virgo!_ Gr-r-r---you swine!

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

5 Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

``Fra Pandolf'' by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

10 The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

15 Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say ``Her mantle laps

``Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or ``Paint

``Must never hope to reproduce the faint

``Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff

20 Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

25 Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace---all and each

30 Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thanked

Somehow---I know not how---as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

35 This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech---(which I have not)---to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, ``Just this

``Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

``Or there exceed the mark''---and if she let

40 Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

---E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

45 Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

50 Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

55 Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

I.

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

5 That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England---now!!

II.

And after April, when May follows,

10 And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops---at the bent spray's edge---

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

15 Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

20 ---Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

I.

The grey sea and the long black land;

And the yellow half-moon large and low;

And the startled little waves that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

5 As I gain the cove with pushing prow,

And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

II.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;

Three fields to cross till a farm appears;

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

10 And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,

Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,

And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:

And straight was a path of gold for him,

And the need of a world of men for me.

I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!

You need not clap your torches to my face.

Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!

What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,

5 And here you catch me at an alley's end

Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?

The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up,

Do,--harry out, if you must show your zeal,

Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,

10 And nip each softling of a wee white mouse,

Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company!

Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take

Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat,

And please to know me likewise. Who am I?

15 Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend

Three streets off--he's a certain . . . how d'ye call?

Master--a ...Cosimo of the Medici,

I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!

Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged,

20 How you affected such a gullet's-gripe!

But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves

Pick up a manner nor discredit you:

Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets

And count fair price what comes into their net?

25 He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!

Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.

Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go

Drink out this quarter-florin to the health

Of the munificent House that harbours me

30 (And many more beside, lads! more beside!)

And all's come square again. I'd like his face--

His, elbowing on his comrade in the door

With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds

John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair

35 With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say)

And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!

It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,

A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!

Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.

40 What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down,

You know them and they take you? like enough!

I saw the proper twinkle in your eye--

'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.

Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.

45 Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands

To roam the town and sing out carnival,

And I've been three weeks shut within my mew,

A-painting for the great man, saints and saints

And saints again. I could not paint all night--

50 Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.

There came a hurry of feet and little feet,

A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song, --

Flower o' the broom,

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!

55 Flower o' the quince,

I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?

Flower o' the thyme--and so on. Round they went.

Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter

Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,--three slim shapes,

60 And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood,

That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went,

Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,

All the bed-furniture--a dozen knots,

There was a ladder! Down I let myself,

65 Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,

And after them. I came up with the fun

Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,--

Flower o' the rose,

If I've been merry, what matter who knows?

70 And so as I was stealing back again

To get to bed and have a bit of sleep

Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work

On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast

With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,

75 You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!

Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head--

Mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting 's in that!

If Master Cosimo announced himself,

Mum's the word naturally; but a monk!

80 Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now!

I was a baby when my mother died

And father died and left me in the street.

I starved there, God knows how, a year or two

On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks,

85 Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,

My stomach being empty as your hat,

The wind doubled me up and down I went.

Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,

(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)

90 And so along the wall, over the bridge,

By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,

While I stood munching my first bread that month:

"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father

Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,--

95 "To quit this very miserable world?

Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought I;

By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;

I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,

Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house,

100 Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici

Have given their hearts to--all at eight years old.

Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,

'Twas not for nothing--the good bellyful,

The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,

105 And day-long blessed idleness beside!

"Let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next.

Not overmuch their way, I must confess.

Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:

Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste!

110 Flower o' the clove.

All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love!

But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets

Eight years together, as my fortune was,

Watching folk's faces to know who will fling

115 The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,

And who will curse or kick him for his pains,--

Which gentleman processional and fine,

Holding a candle to the Sacrament,

Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch

120 The droppings of the wax to sell again,

Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,--

How say I?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop

His bone from the heap of offal in the street,--

Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,

125 He learns the look of things, and none the less

For admonition from the hunger-pinch.

I had a store of such remarks, be sure,

Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.

I drew men's faces on my copy-books,

130 Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge,

Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,

Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,

And made a string of pictures of the world

Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,

135 On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black.

"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?

In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.

What if at last we get our man of parts,

We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese

140 And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine

And put the front on it that ought to be!"

And hereupon he bade me daub away.

Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,

Never was such prompt disemburdening.

145 First, every sort of monk, the black and white,

I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church,

From good old gossips waiting to confess

Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,--

To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,

150 Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there

With the little children round him in a row

Of admiration, half for his beard and half

For that white anger of his victim's son

Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,

155 Signing himself with the other because of Christ

(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this

After the passion of a thousand years)

Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head,

(Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve

160 On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf,

Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers

(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.

I painted all, then cried " `This ask and have;

Choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat,

165 And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.

The monks closed in a circle and praised loud

Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,

Being simple bodies,--"That's the very man!

Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!

170 That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes

To care about his asthma: it's the life!''

But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked;

Their betters took their turn to see and say:

The Prior and the learned pulled a face

175 And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here?

Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!

Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true

As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game!

Your business is not to catch men with show,

180 With homage to the perishable clay,

But lift them over it, ignore it all,

Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh.

Your business is to paint the souls of men--

Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . .

185 It's vapour done up like a new-born babe--

(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)

It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul!

Give us no more of body than shows soul!

Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,

190 That sets us praising--why not stop with him?

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head

With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?

Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!

Rub all out, try at it a second time.

195 Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,

She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say,--

Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off!

Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?

A fine way to paint soul, by painting body

200 So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further

And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white

When what you put for yellow's simply black,

And any sort of meaning looks intense

When all beside itself means and looks nought.

205 Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn,

Left foot and right foot, go a double step,

Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,

Both in their order? Take the prettiest face,

The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint--is it so pretty

210 You can't discover if it means hope, fear,

Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these?

Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue,

Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash,

And then add soul and heighten them three-fold?

215 Or say there's beauty with no soul at all--

(I never saw it--put the case the same--)

If you get simple beauty and nought else,

You get about the best thing God invents:

That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed,

220 Within yourself, when you return him thanks.

"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short,

And so the thing has gone on ever since.

I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds:

You should not take a fellow eight years old

225 And make him swear to never kiss the girls.

I'm my own master, paint now as I please--

Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!

Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front--

Those great rings serve more purposes than just

230 To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!

And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes

Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work,

The heads shake still--"It's art's decline, my son!

You're not of the true painters, great and old;

235 Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find;

Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer:

Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!"

Flower o' the pine,

You keep your mistr ... manners, and I'll stick to mine!

240 I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know!

Don't you think they're the likeliest to know,

They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage,

Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint

To please them--sometimes do and sometimes don't;

245 For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come

A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints--

A laugh, a cry, the business of the world--

(Flower o' the peach

Death for us all, and his own life for each!)

250 And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over,

The world and life's too big to pass for a dream,

And I do these wild things in sheer despite,

And play the fooleries you catch me at,

In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass

255 After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,

Although the miller does not preach to him

The only good of grass is to make chaff.

What would men have? Do they like grass or no--

May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing

260 Settled for ever one way. As it is,

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:

You don't like what you only like too much,

You do like what, if given you at your word,

You find abundantly detestable.

265 For me, I think I speak as I was taught;

I always see the garden and God there

A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,

The value and significance of flesh,

I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.

270 You understand me: I'm a beast, I know.

But see, now--why, I see as certainly

As that the morning-star's about to shine,

What will hap some day. We've a youngster here

Comes to our convent, studies what I do,

275 Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:

His name is Guidi--he'll not mind the monks--

They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk--

He picks my practice up--he'll paint apace.

I hope so--though I never live so long,

280 I know what's sure to follow. You be judge!

You speak no Latin more than I, belike;

However, you're my man, you've seen the world

--The beauty and the wonder and the power,

The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,

285 Changes, surprises,--and God made it all!

--For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,

For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,

The mountain round it and the sky above,

Much more the figures of man, woman, child,

290 These are the frame to? What's it all about?

To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,

Wondered at? oh, this last of course!--you say.

But why not do as well as say,--paint these

Just as they are, careless what comes of it?

295 God's works--paint any one, and count it crime

To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works

Are here already; nature is complete:

Suppose you reproduce her--(which you can't)

There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."

300 For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love

First when we see them painted, things we have passed

Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;

And so they are better, painted--better to us,

Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;

305 God uses us to help each other so,

Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,

Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,

And trust me but you should, though! How much more,

If I drew higher things with the same truth!

310 That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,

Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,

It makes me mad to see what men shall do

And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us,

Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:

315 To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"

Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain

It does not say to folk--remember matins,

Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this

320 What need of art at all? A skull and bones,

Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best,

A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.

I painted a Saint Laurence six months since

At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style:

325 "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?"

I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns--

"Already not one phiz of your three slaves

Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,

But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,

330 The pious people have so eased their own

With coming to say prayers there in a rage:

We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.

Expect another job this time next year,

For pity and religion grow i' the crowd--

335 Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!

--That is--you'll not mistake an idle word

Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot,

Tasting the air this spicy night which turns

The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!

340 Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!

It's natural a poor monk out of bounds

Should have his apt word to excuse himself:

And hearken how I plot to make amends.

I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece

345 ... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see

Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns!

They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint

God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,

Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood,

350 Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet

As puff on puff of grated orris-root

When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer.

And then i' the front, of course a saint or two--

Saint John' because he saves the Florentines,

355 Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white

The convent's friends and gives them a long day,

And Job, I must have him there past mistake,

The man of Uz (and Us without the z,

Painters who need his patience). Well, all these

360 Secured at their devotion, up shall come

Out of a corner when you least expect,

As one by a dark stair into a great light,

Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!--

Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck--I'm the man!

365 Back I shrink--what is this I see and hear?

I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake,

My old serge gown and rope that goes all round,

I, in this presence, this pure company!

Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape?

370 Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing

Forward, puts out a soft palm--"Not so fast!"

--Addresses the celestial presence, "nay--

He made you and devised you, after all,

Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw--

375 His camel-hair make up a painting brush?

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

380 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

385 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 church

A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!

390 Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights!

The street's hushed, and I know my own way back,

Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks!