But Romney,—he has chosen, after all. I think he had as excellent a sun To see by, as most others, and perhaps Has scarce seen really worse than some of us, When all’s said. Let him pass. I’m not too much A woman, not to be a man for once, And bury all my Dead like Alaric, Depositing the treasures of my soul In this drained water-course, and, letting flow The river of life again, with commerce-ships And pleasure-barges, full of silks and songs. Blow, winds, and help us. Ah, we mock ourselves With talking of the winds! perhaps as much With other resolutions. How it weighs, This hot, sick air! and how I covet here The Dead’s provision on the river’s couch, With silver curtains drawn on tinkling rings! Or else their rest in quiet crypts,—laid by From heat and noise!—from those cicale, say, And this more vexing heart-beat. So it is: We covet for the soul, the body’s part, To die and rot. Even so, Aurora, ends Our aspiration, who bespoke our place So far in the east. The occidental flats Had fed us fatter, therefore? we have climbed Where herbage ends? we want the beast’s part now, And tire of the angel’s?—Men define a man, The creature who stands front-ward to the stars, The creature who looks inward to himself, The tool-wright, laughing creature. ’Tis enough: We’ll say instead, the inconsequent creature, man,— For that’s his specialty. What creature else Conceives the circle, and then walks the square? Loves things proved bad, and leaves a thing proved good? You think the bee makes honey half a year, To loathe the comb in winter, and desire The little ant’s food rather? But a man— Note men!—they are but women after all, As women are but Auroras!—there are men Born tender, apt to pale at a trodden worm, Who paint for pastime, in their favourite dream, Spruce auto-vestments flowered with crocus-flames: There are, too, who believe in hell, and lie: There are, who waste their souls in working out Life’s problem on these sands betwixt two tides, And end,—‘Now give us the beast’s part, in death.’
Alas, long-suffering and most patient God, Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us Than even to have made us! thou, aspire, aspire From henceforth for me! thou who hast, thyself, Endured this fleshhood, knowing how, as a soaked And sucking vesture, it would drag us down And choke us in the melancholy Deep, Sustain me, that, with thee, I walk these waves, Resisting!—breathe me upward, thou for me Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, the life,— That no truth henceforth seem indifferent, No way to truth laborious, and no life, Not even this life I live, intolerable! The days went by. I took up the old days With all their Tuscan pleasures, worn and spoiled,— Like some lost book we dropt in the long grass On such a happy summer-afternoon When last we read it with a loving friend, And find in autumn, when the friend is gone, The grass cut short, the weather changed, too late, And stare at, as at something wonderful For sorrow,—thinking how two hands, before, Had held up what is left to only one, And how we smiled when such a vehement nail Impressed the tiny dint here, which presents This verse in fire for ever! Tenderly And mournfully I lived. I knew the birds And insects,—which look fathered by the flowers And emulous of their hues: I recognised The moths, with that great overpoise of wings Which makes a mystery of them how at all They can stop flying: butterflies, that bear Upon their blue wings such red embers round, They seem to scorch the blue air into holes Each flight they take: and fire-flies, that suspire In short soft lapses of transported flame Across the tingling Dark, while overhead The constant and inviolable stars Outburn those lights-of-love: melodious owls, (If music had but one note and was sad, ’Twould sound just so) and all the silent swirl Of bats, that seem to follow in the air Some grand circumference of a shadowy dome To which we are blind: and then, the nightingales, Which pluck our heart across a garden-wall, (When walking in the town) and carry it So high into the bowery almond-trees, We tremble and are afraid, and feel as if The golden flood of moonlight unaware Dissolved the pillars of the steady earth And made it less substantial. And I knew The harmless opal snakes, and large-mouthed frogs, (Those noisy vaunters of their shallow streams) And lizards, the green lightnings of the wall, Which, if you sit down still, nor sigh too loud, Will flatter you and take you for a stone, And flash familiarly about your feet With such prodigious eyes in such small heads!— I knew them, though they had somewhat dwindled from My childish imagery,—and kept in mind How last I sate among them equally, In fellowship and mateship, as a child Will bear him still toward insect, beast, and bird, Before the Adam in him has foregone All privilege of Eden,—making friends And talk, with such a bird or such a goat, And buying many a two-inch-wide rush-cage To let out the caged cricket on a tree, Saying, ‘Oh, my dear grillino, were you cramped? And are you happy with the ilex-leaves? And do you love me who have let you go? Say yes in singing, and I’ll understand.’ But now the creatures all seemed farther off, No longer mine, nor like me; only there, A gulph between us. I could yearn indeed, Like other rich men, for a drop of dew To cool this heat,—a drop of the early dew, The irrecoverable child-innocence (Before the heart took fire and withered life) When childhood might pair equally with birds; But now ... the birds were grown too proud for us! Alas, the very sun forbids the dew.
And I, I had come back to an empty nest, Which every bird’s too wise for. How I heard My father’s step on that deserted ground, His voice along that silence, as he told The names of bird and insect, tree and flower, And all the presentations of the stars Across Valdarno, interposing still ‘My child,’ ‘my child.’ When fathers say ‘my child,’ ’Tis easier to conceive the universe, And life’s transitions down the steps of law.
I rode once to the little mountain-house As fast as if to find my father there, But, when in sight of’t, within fifty yards, I dropped my horse’s bridle on his neck And paused upon his flank. The house’s front Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian corn In tesselated order, and device Of golden patterns: not a stone of wall Uncovered,—not an inch of room to grow A vine-leaf. The old porch had disappeared; And, in the open doorway, sate a girl At plaiting straws,—her black hair strained away To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath her chin In Tuscan fashion,—her full ebon eyes, Which looked too heavy to be lifted so, Still dropt and lifted toward the mulberry-tree On which the lads were busy with their staves In shout and laughter, stripping all the boughs As bare as winter, of those summer leaves My father had not changed for all the silk In which the ugly silkworms hide themselves. Enough. My horse recoiled before my heart— I turned the rein abruptly. Back we went As fast, to Florence. That was trial enough Of graves. I would not visit, if I could, My father’s, or my mother’s any more, To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat So early in the race, or throw my flowers, Which could not out-smell heaven, or sweeten earth. They live too far above, that I should look So far below to find them: let me think That rather they are visiting my grave, This life here, (undeveloped yet to life) And that they drop upon me, now and then, For token or for solace, some small weed Least odorous of the growths of paradise, To spare such pungent scents as kill with joy. My old Assunta, too, was dead, was dead— O land of all men’s past! for me alone, It would not mix its tenses. I was past, It seemed, like others,—only not in heaven. And, many a Tuscan eve, I wandered down The cypress alley, like a restless ghost That tries its feeble ineffectual breath Upon its own charred funeral-brands put out Too soon,—where, black and stiff, stood up the trees Against the broad vermilion of the skies. Such skies!—all clouds abolished in a sweep Of God’s skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts and men, As down I went, saluting on the bridge The hem of such, before ’twas caught away Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Underneath, The river, just escaping from the weight Of that intolerable glory, ran In acquiescent shadow murmurously: And up, beside it, streamed the festa-folk With fellow-murmurs from their feet and fans, (With issimo and ino and sweet poise Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous talk) Returning from the grand-duke’s dairy-farm Before the trees grew dangerous at eight, (For, ‘trust no tree by moonlight,’ Tuscans say) To eat their ice at Doni’s tenderly,— Each lovely lady close to a cavalier Who holds her dear fan while she feeds her smile On meditative spoonfuls of vanille, He breathing hot protesting vows of love, Enough to thaw her cream, and scorch his beard. ’Twas little matter. I could pass them by Indifferently, not fearing to be known. No danger of being wrecked upon a friend, And forced to take an iceberg for an isle! The very English, here, must wait to learn To hang the cobweb of their gossip out And catch a fly. I’m happy. It’s sublime, This perfect solitude of foreign lands! To be, as if you had not been till then, And were then, simply that you chose to be: To spring up, not be brought forth from the ground, Like grasshoppers at Athens, and skip thrice Before a woman makes a pounce on you And plants you in her hair!—possess, yourself, A new world all alive with creatures new, New sun, new moon, new flowers, new people—ah, And be possessed by none of them! no right In one, to call your name, enquire your where, Or what you think of Mister Some-one’s book, Or Mister Other’s marriage, or decease, Or how’s the headache which you had last week, Or why you look so pale still, since it’s gone? —Such most surprising riddance of one’s life Comes next one’s death; it’s disembodiment Without the pang. I marvel, people choose To stand stock-still like fakirs, till the moss Grows on them, and they cry out, self-admired, ‘How verdant and how virtuous!’ Well, I’m glad: Or should be, if grown foreign to myself As surely as to others. Musing so, I walked the narrow unrecognising streets, Where many a palace-front peers gloomily Through stony vizors iron-barred, (prepared Alike, should foe or lover pass that way, For guest or victim) and came wandering out Upon the churches with mild open doors And plaintive wail of vespers, where a few, Those chiefly women, sprinkled round in blots Upon the dusky pavement, knelt and prayed Toward the altar’s silver glory. Oft a ray (I liked to sit and watch) would tremble out, Just touch some face more lifted, more in need, Of course a woman’s—while I dreamed a tale To fit its fortunes. There was one who looked As if the earth had suddenly grown too large For such a little humpbacked thing as she; The pitiful black kerchief round her neck Sole proof she had had a mother. One, again, Looked sick for love,—seemed praying some soft saint To put more virtue in the new fine scarf She spent a fortnight’s meals on, yesterday, That cruel Gigi might return his eyes From Giuliana. There was one, so old, So old, to kneel grew easier than to stand,— So solitary, she accepts at last Our Lady for her gossip, and frets on Against the sinful world which goes its rounds In marrying and being married, just the same As when ’twas almost good and had the right, (Her Gian alive, and she herself eighteen). And yet, now even, if Madonna willed, She’d win a tern in Thursday’s lottery, And better all things. Did she dream for nought, That, boiling cabbage for the fast-day’s soup, It smelt like blessed entrails? such a dream For nought? would sweetest Mary cheat her so, And lose that certain candle, straight and white As any fair grand-duchess in her teens, Winch otherwise should flare here in a week? Benigna sis, thou beauteous Queen of heaven!
I sate there musing, and imagining Such utterance from such faces: poor blind souls That writhed toward heaven along the devil’s trail,— Who knows, I thought, but He may stretch his hand And pick them up? ’tis written in the Book, He heareth the young ravens when they cry; And yet they cry for carrion.—O my God,— And we, who make excuses for the rest, We do it in our measure. Then I knelt, And dropped my head upon the pavement too, And prayed, since I was foolish in desire Like other creatures, craving offal-food, That He would stop his ears to what I said, And only listen to the run and beat Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood— And then I lay, and spoke not. But He heard in heaven. So many Tuscan evenings passed the same! I could not lose a sunset on the bridge, And would not miss a vigil in the church, And liked to mingle with the out-door crowd So strange and gay and ignorant of my face, For men you know not, are as good as trees. And only once, at the Santissima, I almost chanced upon a man I knew, Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me certainly, And somewhat hurried, as he crossed himself, The smoothness of the action,—then half bowed, But only half, and merely to my shade, I slipped so quick behind the porphyry plinth, And left him dubious if ’twas really I, Or peradventure Satan’s usual trick To keep a mounting saint uncanonised. But I was safe for that time, and he too; The argent angels in the altar-flare Absorbed his soul, next moment. The good man! In England we were scarce acquaintances, That here in Florence he should keep my thought Beyond the image on his eye, which came And went: and yet his thought disturbed my life: For, after that, I oftener sate at home On evenings, watching how they fined themselves With gradual conscience to a perfect night, Until the moon, diminished to a curve, Lay out there, like a sickle for His hand Who cometh down at last to reap the earth. At such times, ended seemed my trade of verse; I feared to jingle bells upon my robe Before the four-faced silent cherubim: With God so near me, could I sing of God? I did not write, nor read, nor even think, But sate absorbed amid the quickening glooms, Most like some passive broken lump of salt Dropt in by chance to a bowl of œnomel, To spoil the drink a little, and lose itself, Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost.
EIGHTH BOOK.
One eve it happened, when I sate alone, Alone, upon the terrace of my tower, A book upon my knees, to counterfeit The reading that I never read at all, While Marian, in the garden down below, Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill The drowsy silence of the exhausted day) And peeled a new fig from that purple heap In the grass beside her,—turning out the red To feed her eager child, who sucked at it With vehement lips across a gap of air As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame With that last sun-ray, crying, ‘give me, give,’ And stamping with imperious baby-feet, (We’re all born princes)—something startled me,— The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks Abruptly, as if frightened at itself; ’Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh, And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book, And knew, the first time, ’twas Boccaccio’s tales, The Falcon’s,—of the lover who for love Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no more. Laugh you, sweet Marian! you’ve the right to laugh, Since God himself is for you, and a child! For me there’s somewhat less,—and so, I sigh.
The heavens were making room to hold the night, The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates To let the stars out slowly (prophesied In close-approaching advent, not discerned), While still the cue-owls from the cypresses Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually The purple and transparent shadows slow Had filled up the whole valley to the brim, And flooded all the city, which you saw As some drowned city in some enchanted sea, Cut off from nature,—drawing you who gaze, With passionate desire, to leap and plunge, And find a sea-king with a voice of waves, And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks You cannot kiss but you shall bring away Their salt upon your lips. The duomo-bell Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down, So deep; and fifty churches answer it The same, with fifty various instances. Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets; The Pitti’s palace-front is drawn in fire; And, past the quays, Maria Novella’s Place, In which the mystic obelisks stand up Triangular, pyramidal, each based On a single trine of brazen tortoises, To guard that fair church, Buonarroti’s Bride, That stares out from her large blind dial-eyes, Her quadrant and armillary dials, black With rhythms of many suns and moons, in vain Enquiry for so rich a soul as his,— Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so clear.... And, oh my heart, ... the sea-king!