We lose no daughter,—gain a son, that 's all:
For 't is arranged we never separate,
Nor miss, in our gray time of life, the tints
Of you that color eve to match with morn.
In good or ill, we share and share alike,
And cast our lots into a common lap,
And all three die together as we lived!
Only, at Arezzo,—that 's a Tuscan town,
Not so large as this noisy Rome, no doubt,
But older far and finer much, say folk,—