I found a house, at Florence, on the hill Of Bellosguardo. ’Tis a tower that keeps A post of double-observation o’er The valley of Arno (holding as a hand The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole And Mount Morello and the setting sun,— The Vallombrosan mountains to the right, Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups Wine-filled, and red to the brim because it’s red. No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve Were magnified before us in the pure Illimitable space and pause of sky, Intense as angels’ garments blanched with God, Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall Of the garden, dropped the mystic floating grey Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green From maize and vine) until ’twas caught and torn On that abrupt black line of cypresses Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful The city lay along the ample vale, Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street; The river trailing like a silver cord Through all, and curling loosely, both before And after, over the whole stretch of land Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes, With farms and villas. Many weeks had passed, No word was granted.—Last, a letter came From Vincent Carrington:—‘My dear Miss Leigh, You’ve been as silent as a poet should, When any other man is sure to speak. If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver-piece Will split a man’s tongue,—straight he speaks and says, ‘Received that cheque.’ But you!... I send you funds To Paris, and you make no sign at all. Remember I’m responsible and wait A sign of you, Miss Leigh. ‘Meantime your book Is eloquent as if you were not dumb; And common critics, ordinarily deaf To such fine meanings, and, like deaf men, loth To seem deaf, answering chance-wise, yes or no, ‘It must be,’ or ‘it must not,’ (most pronounced When least convinced) pronounce for once aright: You’d think they really heard,—and so they do ... The burr of three or four who really hear And praise your book aright: Fame’s smallest trump Is a great ear-trumpet for the deaf as posts, No other being effective. Fear not, friend; We think, here, you have written a good book, And you, a woman! It was in you—yes, I felt ’twas in you: yet I doubted half If that od-force of German Reichenbach Which still from female finger-tips burns blue, Could strike out, as our masculine white heats, To quicken a man. Forgive me. All my heart Is quick with yours, since, just a fortnight since, I read your book and loved it. ‘Will you love My wife, too? Here’s my secret, I might keep A month more from you! but I yield it up Because I know you’ll write the sooner for’t,— Most women (of your height even) counting love