That I be called to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder clap
Was never heard,
There breathe but o’er my arch of grass,
A not too sadly sigh’d “Alas!”
And I shall catch ere you can pass,
That wingéd word.
The last time I was in Florence I bent over his grave and with deliberate emphasis I whispered “Alas!” I do not know whether he heard me or not.
Robert and Elizabeth Browning made the poet’s later years as happy as was possible for one of his temperament; they secured a villa for him, furnished it, hired servants and did what they could. He was wildly irascible, and if he did not like a meal that was served, he grabbed the table-cloth, and twitched all the food and dishes on to the floor. All his life he was a fighting man, which makes the beautiful Farewell he wrote somewhat incongruous.
THE LAST FRUIT OF AN OLD TREE