To shine there, at the first love’s covenant, Shines still, convictive as a marriage-ring Before adulterous eyes. How sure it is, That, if we say a true word, instantly We feel ’tis God’s, not ours, and pass it on As bread at sacrament, we taste and pass Nor handle for a moment, as indeed We dared to set up any claim to such! And I—my poem;—let my readers talk; I’m closer to it—I can speak as well: I’ll say, with Romney, that the book is weak, The range uneven, the points of sight obscure, The music interrupted. Let us go. The end of woman (or of man, I think) Is not a book. Alas, the best of books Is but a word in Art, which soon grows cramped, Stiff, dubious-statured with the weight of years, And drops an accent or digamma down Some cranny of unfathomable time, Beyond the critic’s reaching. Art itself, We’ve called the higher life, still must feel the soul Live past it. For more’s felt than is perceived, And more’s perceived than can be interpreted, And Love strikes higher with his lambent flame Than Art can pile the faggots. Is it so? When Jove’s hand meets us with composing touch, And when, at last, we are hushed and satisfied,— Then, Io does not call it truth, but love? Well, well! my father was an Englishman: My mother’s blood in me is not so strong That I should bear this stress of Tuscan noon And keep my wits. The town, there, seems to seethe In this Medæan boil-pot of the sun, And all the patient hills are bubbling round As if a prick would leave them flat. Does heaven Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze? Not so,—let drag your fiery fringes, heaven, And burn us up to quiet! Ah, we know Too much here, not to know what’s best for peace; We have too much light here, not to want more fire To purify and end us. We talk, talk, Conclude upon divine philosophies, And get the thanks of men for hopeful books; Whereat we take our own life up, and ... pshaw! Unless we piece it with another’s life, (A yard of silk to carry out our lawn) As well suppose my little handkerchief Would cover Samminiato, church and all, If out I threw it past the cypresses, As, in this ragged, narrow life of mine, Contain my own conclusions. But at least We’ll shut up the persiani, and sit down, And when my head’s done aching, in the cool, Write just a word to Kate and Carrington. May joy be with them! she has chosen well, And he not ill. I should be glad, I think, Except for Romney. Had _he_ married Kate, I surely, surely, should be very glad. This Florence sits upon me easily, With native air and tongue. My graves are calm, And do not too much hurt me. Marian’s good,