The Defence of Lucknow
Alfred Tennyson
Ulysses
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
I
BANNER of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry!
Never with mightier glory than when we had rear’d thee on high
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow—
Shot thro’ the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew,
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
II.
Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives—
Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives!
Hold it we might—and for fifteen days or for twenty at most.
‘Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post!’
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave:
Cold were his brows when we kiss’d him—we laid him that night in his grave.
‘Every man die at his post!’ and there hail’d on our houses and halls
Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls,
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade,
Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade,
Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell,
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro’ it, their shot and their shell,
Death—for their spies were among us, their marksmen were told of our best,
So that the brute bullet broke thro’ the brain that could think for the rest;
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet—
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round—
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street,
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in the ground!
Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep thro’ the hole!
Keep the revolver in hand! you can hear him—the murderous mole!
Quiet, ah! quiet—wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro’!
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before—
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew!
III.
Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo ‘d away,
Dark thro’ the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in their hell—
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell—
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell.
What have they done? where is it? Out yonder. Guard the Redan!
Storm at the Water-gate! storm at the Bailey-gate! storm, and it ran
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily devour’d by the tide—
So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape?
Kill or be kill’d, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men
Ready! take aim at their leaders—their masses are gapp’d with our grape—
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again,
Flying and foil’d at the last by the handful they could not subdue;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
IV.
Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb,
Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure,
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him;
Still—could we watch at all points? we were every day fewer and fewer.
There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past
‘Children and wives—if the tigers leap into the fold unawares—
Every man die at his post—and the foe may outlive us at last—
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs!’
Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades.
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true!
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusillades—
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung,
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand-grenades;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
V.
Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore
Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more.
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun—
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out: ‘Follow me, follow me!’—
Mark him—he falls! then another, and him too, and down goes he.
Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won?
Boardings and rafters and doors—an embrasure I make way for the gun!
Now double-charge it with grape! It is charged and we fire, and they run.
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due!
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few,
Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew,
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew.

The Lady of Shalott (1832)
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
Round about Shalott.
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
Willows whiten, aspens shiver.
The sunbeam showers break and quiver
In the stream that runneth ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel, singing clearly,
O'er the stream of Camelot.
Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,
Havelock’s glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers,
Beneath the moon, the reaper weary
Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,
Thick-jewell'd
Lady of Shalott.'
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
The little isle is all inrail'd
With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd
With roses: by the marge unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,
Skimming down to Camelot.
A pearl garland winds her head:
Like some bold seer in a trance,
She leaneth on a velvet bed,
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
Full royally apparelled,
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
The Lady of Shalott.
Part II
No time hath she to sport and play:
A charmed web she weaves alway.
A curse is on her, if she stay
Her weaving, either night or day,
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be;
By creeks and outfalls far from home,
Therefore she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
She lives with little joy or fear.
Over the water, running near,
The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
Before her hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting tower'd Camelot.
And as the mazy web she whirls,
She sees the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott. The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot:
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, came from Camelot:
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings to arms,
Or when the moon was overhead
Came two young lovers lately wed;
'I am half sick of shadows,' said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
And flam'd upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter’d walls
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down from Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
As he rode down from Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over green Shalott.
their stars they blest,
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down from Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom
She made three paces thro' the room
She saw the water-flower bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
'The curse is come upon me,' cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Outside the isle a shallow boat
Beneath a willow lay afloat,
Below the carven stern she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.
All raimented in snowy white
That loosely flew (her zone in sight
Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,
Though the squally east-wind keenly
Blew, with folded arms serenely
By the water stood the queenly
Lady of Shalott.
Defense of Lucknow cont.
VI.
Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can fight!
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro’ the night—
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms,
Ever the labour of fifty that had to be done by five,
Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive,
Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around,
Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground,
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies,
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies.
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field,
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal’d,
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife,—
Torture and trouble in vain,—for it never could save us a life.
Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed,
Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead,
Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief,
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher’d for all that we knew—
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls—
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
VII.
Hark cannonade, fusillade! is it true what was told by the scout,
Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers?
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears!
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout,
Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out,
Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock’s good fusileers,
Kissing the war-harden’d hand of the Highlander wet with their tears!
Dance to the pibroch!—saved! we are saved!—is it you? is it you?
Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven!
‘Hold it for fifteen days!’ we have held it for eighty-seven!
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England ble
Part IV continued
With a steady stony glance— They cross'd themselves,
Beholding all his own mischance, Knight, minstrel, abbot,
Mute, with a glassy countenance—
squire, and guest.
She look'd down to Camelot. There lay a parchment on
It was the closing of the day:
her breast,
She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; That puzzled more than
The broad stream bore her far away,
all the rest,
The Lady of Shalott.
The wellfed wits at
Camelot.
As when to sailors while they roam,
'The web was woven
curiously,
Rising and dropping with the foam, The charm is broken
From dying swans wild warblings come, utterly,
Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Draw near and fear not,—
Still as the boathead wound along this is I,
The willowy hills and fields among, The Lady of Shalott
They heard her chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of Shalott.
A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden wall and gallery,
A pale, pale corpse she floated by,
Deadcold, between the houses high,
Dead into tower'd Camelot.
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
To the planked wharfage came:
Below the stern they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.


My Last Duchess
BY ROBERT BROWNING
FERRARA
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Crouching close together
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
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
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
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
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
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,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
At their return, up the high strand,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Only, from the long line of spray
Listen! you hear the grating roar
The eternal note of sadness in.
The sea is calm tonight.
BY MATTHEW ARNOLD
Dover Beach
Goblin Market “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI You should not peep at goblin men.” haste:
Morning and evening Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, “Good folk, I have no coin;
Maids heard the goblins cry: Cover’d close lest they should look; To take were to purloin:
“Come buy our orchard fruits, Laura rear’d her glossy head, I have no copper in my purse,
Come buy, come buy: And whisper’d like the restless brook: I have no silver either,
Apples and quinces, “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, And all my gold is on the furze
Lemons and oranges, Down the glen tramp little men. That shakes in windy weather
Plump unpeck’d cherries, One hauls a basket, Above the rusty heather.”
Melons and raspberries, One bears a plate, “You have much gold upon your
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, One lugs a golden dish head,”
Swart-headed mulberries, Of many pounds weight. They answer’d all together:
Wild free-born cranberries, How fair the vine must grow “Buy from us with a golden curl.”
Crab-apples, dewberries, Whose grapes are so luscious; She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
Pine-apples, blackberries, How warm the wind must blow She dropp’d a tear more rare than
Apricots, strawberries;— Through those fruit bushes.” pearl,
All ripe together “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or
In summer weather,— Their offers should not charm us, red:
Morns that pass by, Their evil gifts would harm us.” Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Fair eves that fly; She thrust a dimpled finger Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Come buy, come buy: In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
Our grapes fresh from the vine, Curious Laura chose to linger She never tasted such before,
Pomegranates full and fine, Wondering at each merchant man. How should it cloy with length of
Dates and sharp bullaces, One had a cat’s face, use?
Rare pears and greengages, One whisk’d a tail, She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d
Damsons and bilberries, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, the more
Taste them and try: One crawl’d like a snail, Fruits which that unknown orchard
Currants and gooseberries, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,bore;
Bright-fire-like barberries, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Figs to fill your mouth, She heard a voice like voice of doves Then flung the emptied rinds away
Citrons from the South, Cooing all together: But gather’d up one kernel stone,
Sweet to tongue and sound to They sounded kind and full of loves And knew not was it night or day
eye; In the pleasant weather. As she turn’d home alone.
Come buy, come buy.” Lizzie met her at the gate
aura stretch’d her gleaming neck Full of wise upbraidings:
Evening by evening Like a rush-imbedded swan, “Dear, you should not stay so late,
Among the brookside rushes, Like a lily from the beck, Twilight is not good for maidens;
Laura bow’d her head to hear, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Should not loiter in the glen
Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Like a vessel at the launch In the haunts of goblin men.
When its last restraint is gone. Do you not remember Jeanie,
In the cooling weather, How she met them in the moonlight,
With clasping arms and cautioning Backwards up the mossy glen Took their gifts both choice and
lips, Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, many,
With tingling cheeks and finger With their shrill repeated cry, Ate their fruits and wore their
tips. “Come buy, come buy.” flowers
“Lie close,” Laura said, When they reach’d where Laura was Pluck’d from bowers
Pricking up her golden head: They stood stock still upon the moss, Where summer ripens at all hours?
“We must not look at goblin men, Leering at each other, But ever in the noonlight
We must not buy their fruits: Brother with queer brother; She pined and pined away;
Who knows upon what soil they Signalling each other, Sought them by night and day,
fed Brother with sly brother. Found them no more, but dwindled
Their hungry thirsty roots?” One set his basket down, and grew grey;
“Come buy,” call the goblins One rear’d his plate; Then fell with the first snow,
Hobbling down the glen. One began to weave a crown While to this day no grass will grow
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown Where she lies low:
(Men sell not such in any town); I planted daisies there a year ago
One heav’d the golden weight That never blow.
Of dish and fruit to offer her: You should not loiter so.”
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. “Nay, hush,” said Laura:
Laura stared but did not stir, “Nay, hush, my sister:
Long’d but had no money: I ate and ate my fill,
The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste Yet my mouth waters still;
In tones as smooth as honey, To-morrow night I will
The cat-faced purr’d, Buy more;” and kiss’d her:
The rat-faced spoke a word “Have done with sorrow;
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
heard; Fresh on their mother twigs,
One parrot-voiced and jolly Cherries worth getting;
Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—You cannot think what figs
One whistled like a bird. My teeth have met in,
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and
Too huge for me to hold,
To one another! for the world, which seems
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the
Find also in the sound a thought,
And naked shingles of the world.
So various, so beautiful, so new,
wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”
Retreating, to the breath
Ah, love, let us be true
Of human misery; we
Sophocles long ago
But now I only hear
The Sea of Faith
flight,
Golden head by golden head,
Chattering like magpies, Would not open lip from lip
Like two pigeons in one nest Day after day, night after night, Fluttering like pigeons, Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
Folded in each other’s wings, Laura kept watch in vain Gliding like fishes,— But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
They lay down in their curtain’d bed: In sullen silence of exceeding pain. Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
Like two blossoms on one stem, She never caught again the goblin cry: Squeez’d and caress’d her: And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, “Come buy, come buy;”— Stretch’d up their dishes, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
Like two wands of ivory She never spied the goblin men Panniers, and plates: At last the evil people,
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Hawking their fruits along the glen: “Look at our apples Worn out by her resistance,
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, But when the noon wax’d bright Russet and dun, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Wind sang to them lullaby, Her hair grew thin and grey; Bob at our cherries, Along whichever road they took,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly, She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn Bite at our peaches, Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro To swift decay and burn Citrons and dates, Some writh’d into the ground,
Round their rest: Her fire away. Grapes for the asking, Some div’d into the brook
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Pears red with basking With ring and ripple,
Lock’d together in one nest. One day remembering her kernel-stone Out in the sun, Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
She set it by a wall that faced the south; Plums on their twigs; Some vanish’d in the distance.
Early in the morning Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Pluck them and suck them,
When the first cock crow’d his warning, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, Pomegranates, figs.”— In a smart, ache, tingle,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, But there came none;
Lizzie went her way;
Laura rose with Lizzie: It never saw the sun, “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Knew not was it night or day;
Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, It never felt the trickling moisture run: Mindful of Jeanie: Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Air’d and set to rights the house, While with sunk eyes and faded mouth “Give me much and many: — Threaded copse and dingle,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees Held out her apron, And heard her penny jingle
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, False waves in desert drouth Toss’d them her penny. Bouncing in her purse,—
Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, “Nay, take a seat with us, Its bounce was music to her ear.
Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. Honour and eat with us,” She ran and ran
Talk’d as modest maidens should:
They answer’d grinning: As if she fear’d some goblin man
Lizzie with an open heart, She no more swept the house, “Our feast is but beginning. Dogg’d her with gibe or curse
Laura in an absent dream, Tended the fowls or cows, Night yet is early, Or something worse:
One content, one sick in part; Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Warm and dew-pearly, But not one goblin scurried after,
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, Brought water from the brook: Wakeful and starry: Nor was she prick’d by fear;
One longing for the night. But sat down listless in the chimney-nook Such fruits as these The kind heart made her windy-paced
And would not eat. No man can carry: That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
At length slow evening came:
Half their bloom would fly, And inward laughter.
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Tender Lizzie could not bear Half their dew would dry,

Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;”—
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear’d to pay too dear.
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.”—
“Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss’d you for a fee.”—
They began to scratch their pates,
She cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”

And said the hour was early still She thought of Jeanie in her grave, No longer wagging, purring, Laura started from her chair,
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Who should have been a bride; But visibly demurring, Flung her arms up in the air,
Listening ever, but not catching But who for joys brides hope to have Grunting and snarling. Clutch’d her hair:
The customary cry, Fell sick and died One call’d her proud, “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
“Come buy, come buy,” In her gay prime, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; For my sake the fruit forbidden?
With its iterated jingle In earliest winter time Their tones wax’d loud, Must your light like mine be hidden,
Of sugar-baited words: With the first glazing rime, Their looks were evil. Your young life like mine be wasted,
Not for all her watching With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Lashing their tails Undone in mine undoing,
Once discerning even one goblin
They trod and hustled her, And ruin’d in my ruin,
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Till Laura dwindling Elbow’d and jostled her, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”—
Let alone the herds Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Claw’d with their nails, She clung about her sister,
That used to tramp along the glen, Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
In groups or single, Better and worse; Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Tears once again
Of brisk fruit-merchant men. But put a silver penny in her purse, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Refresh’d her shrunken eyes,
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Dropping like rain
Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; furze Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits After long sultry drouth;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: At twilight, halted by the brook: Against her mouth to make her eat. Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
You should not loiter longer at this brook: And for the first time in her life
She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.
Come with me home. Began to listen and look. White and golden Lizzie stood,

The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,

Like a lily in a flood,— Her lips began to scorch,
Each glowworm winks her spark, Laugh’d every goblin Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
Let us get home before the night grows dark: When they spied her peeping: Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— She loath’d the feast:
For clouds may gather Came towards her hobbling, Like a beacon left alone Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Though this is summer weather, Flying, running, leaping, In a hoary roaring sea, Rent all her robe, and wrung
Put out the lights and drench us through; Puffing and blowing, Sending up a golden fire,— Her hands in lamentable haste,
Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree And beat her breast.
Clucking and gobbling, White with blossoms honey-sweet Her locks stream’d like the torch
Laura turn’d cold as stone Mopping and mowing, Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Borne by a racer at full speed,
To find her sister heard that cry alone, Full of airs and graces, Like a royal virgin town Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
That goblin cry, Pulling wry faces, Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Or like an eagle when she stems the light
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Demure grimaces, Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Straight toward the sun,
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Cat-like and rat-like, Mad to tug her standard down. Or like a caged thing freed,
Must she no more such succous pasture find, Ratel- and wombat-like,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Gone deaf and blind? Snail-paced in a hurry, One may lead a horse to water,
Her tree of life droop’d from the root: Parrot-voiced and whistler, Twenty cannot make him drink.
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her,
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Coax’d and fought her,
Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; Bullied and besought her,
So crept to bed, and lay Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Silent till Lizzie slept; Kick’d and knock’d her,
Then sat up in a passionate yearning, Maul’d and mock’d her,
And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept Lizzie utter’d not a word;
As if her heart would break.

 Fra Lippo Lippi (2) The wind doubled me up and down I went.
Goblin Market cont BY ROBERT BROWNING Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,
Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, [Florentine painter, 1412-69] (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)
Met the fire smouldering there (1)I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! And so along the wall, over the bridge,
And overbore its lesser flame; You need not clap your torches to my face. By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,
She gorged on bitterness without a name: Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! While I stood munching my first bread that month:
Ah! fool, to choose such part What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, "So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father
Of soul-consuming care! And here you catch me at an alley's end Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,—
Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? "To quit this very miserable world?
Like the watch-tower of a town The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought I;
Which an earthquake shatters down, Do,—harry out, if you must show your zeal, By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;
Like a lightning-stricken mast, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,
Like a wind-uprooted tree And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house,
Spun about, Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company! Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici
Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take Have given their hearts to—all at eight years old.
Cast down headlong in the sea, Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,
She fell at last; And please to know me likewise. Who am I? 'Twas not for nothing—the good bellyful,
Pleasure past and anguish past, Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,
Is it death or is it life? Three streets off—he's a certain . . . how d'ye call? And day-long blessed idleness beside!
Master—a ...Cosimo of the Medici, "Let's see what the urchin's fit for"—that came next.
Life out of death. I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste!
Felt for her breath, But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Flower o' the clove.
Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face Pick up a manner nor discredit you: All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love!
With tears and fanning leaves: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets
But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And count fair price what comes into their net? Eight years together, as my fortune was,
And early reapers plodded to the place He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! Watching folk's faces to know who will fling
Of golden sheaves, Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,
And dew-wet grass Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go And who will curse or kick him for his pains,—
Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Which gentleman processional and fine,
And new buds with new day Of the munificent House that harbours me Holding a candle to the Sacrament,
Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch
Laura awoke as from a dream, And all's come square again. I'd like his face— The droppings of the wax to sell again,
Laugh’d in the innocent old way, His, elbowing on his comrade in the door Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,—
Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; With the pike and lantern,—for the slave that holds How say I?—nay, which dog bites, which lets drop
Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair His bone from the heap of offal in the street,—
Her breath was sweet as May With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,
And light danced in her eyes. And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! He learns the look of things, and none the less
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, For admonition from the hunger-pinch.
Days, weeks, months, years A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! I had a store of such remarks, be sure,
Afterwards, when both were wives Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.
With children of their own; What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, I drew men's faces on my copy-books,
Their mother-hearts beset with fears, You know them and they take you? like enough! Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge,
Their lives bound up in tender lives; I saw the proper twinkle in your eye— Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,
Laura would call the little ones 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,
And tell them of her early prime, Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. And made a string of pictures of the world
Those pleasant days long gone Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,
Of not-returning time: To roam the town and sing out carnival, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black.
Would talk about the haunted glen, And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.
Their fruits like honey to the throat And saints again. I could not paint all night— What if at last we get our man of parts,
But poison in the blood; Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese
(Men sell not such in any town): There came a hurry of feet and little feet, And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine
Would tell them how her sister stood A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song, — And put the front on it that ought to be!"
In deadly peril to do her good, Flower o' the broom, And hereupon he bade me daub away.
And win the fiery antidote: Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,
Then joining hands to little hands Flower o' the quince, Never was such prompt disemburdening.
Would bid them cling together, I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? First, every sort of monk, the black and white,
“For there is no friend like a sister Flower o' the thyme—and so on. Round they went. I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church,
In calm or stormy weather; Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter From good old gossips waiting to confess
To cheer one on the tedious way, Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,—three slim shapes,Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,—
To fetch one if one goes astray, And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,
To lift one if one totters down, That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there
To strengthen whilst one stands.” Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, With the little children round him in a row
All the bed-furniture—a dozen knots, Of admiration, half for his beard and half
(3)Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true There was a ladder! Down I let myself, For that white anger of his victim's son
As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,
Your business is not to catch men with show, And after them. I came up with the fun Signing himself with the other because of Christ
With homage to the perishable clay, Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,— (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this
But lift them over it, ignore it all, Flower o' the rose, After the passion of a thousand years)
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. If I've been merry, what matter who knows? Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head,
Your business is to paint the souls of men— And so as I was stealing back again (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . . To get to bed and have a bit of sleep On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf,
It's vapour done up like a new-born babe— Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers
(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.
It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, I painted all, then cried "'Tis ask and have;
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! Choose, for more's ready!"—laid the ladder flat,
Give us no more of body than shows soul!
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head— And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.
Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,
Mine's shaved—a monk, you say—the sting 's in that! The monks closed in a circle and praised loud
That sets us praising—why not stop with him?
If Master Cosimo announced himself, Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,
Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! Being simple bodies,—"That's the very man!
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not? Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! I was a baby when my mother died That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes
Rub all out, try at it a second time. And father died and left me in the street. To care about his asthma: it's the life!''
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, I starved there, God knows how, a year or two But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked;
She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say,— On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Their betters took their turn to see and say:
Who went and danced and got men's heads cut Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, The Prior and the learned pulled a face
off! My stomach being empty as your hat, And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here?

Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!
(4)Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?
(6)It's natural a poor monk out of bounds
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for
white
... There's for you! Give me six months, then go,
When what you put for yellow's simply black,
And any sort of meaning looks intense
When all beside itself means and looks nought.
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
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?
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,
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
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
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;
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!
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;
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!)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?"
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
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
— For pity and religion grow i' the crowd—
May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing
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.
For me, I think I speak as I was taught;
I always see the garden and God there
(5)A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,
The value and significance of flesh,
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.
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,
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,
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, Painters who need his patience). Well, all these
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,
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?
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."
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there
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;
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, And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
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:
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
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:
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,
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,
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!
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!
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
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,
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,
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,
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!
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?
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,
draw—
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
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay
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 church
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
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!