You understand me: I’m a beast, I know. {270} 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! {280} 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 colors, lights, and shades, 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? {290} 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 {300} 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 If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior’s pulpit-place, {310} 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 folks--remember matins, Or, mind your fast next Friday!” Why, for this What need of art at all? A skull and bones, {320} Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, 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: “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,