I sate there musing, and imagining Such utterance from such faces: poor blind souls That writhed toward heaven along the devil’s trail,— Who knows, I thought, but He may stretch his hand And pick them up? ’tis written in the Book, He heareth the young ravens when they cry; And yet they cry for carrion.—O my God,— And we, who make excuses for the rest, We do it in our measure. Then I knelt, And dropped my head upon the pavement too, And prayed, since I was foolish in desire Like other creatures, craving offal-food, That He would stop his ears to what I said, And only listen to the run and beat Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood— And then I lay, and spoke not. But He heard in heaven. So many Tuscan evenings passed the same! I could not lose a sunset on the bridge, And would not miss a vigil in the church, And liked to mingle with the out-door crowd So strange and gay and ignorant of my face, For men you know not, are as good as trees. And only once, at the Santissima, I almost chanced upon a man I knew, Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me certainly, And somewhat hurried, as he crossed himself, The smoothness of the action,—then half bowed, But only half, and merely to my shade, I slipped so quick behind the porphyry plinth, And left him dubious if ’twas really I, Or peradventure Satan’s usual trick To keep a mounting saint uncanonised. But I was safe for that time, and he too; The argent angels in the altar-flare Absorbed his soul, next moment. The good man! In England we were scarce acquaintances, That here in Florence he should keep my thought Beyond the image on his eye, which came And went: and yet his thought disturbed my life: For, after that, I oftener sate at home On evenings, watching how they fined themselves With gradual conscience to a perfect night, Until the moon, diminished to a curve, Lay out there, like a sickle for His hand Who cometh down at last to reap the earth. At such times, ended seemed my trade of verse; I feared to jingle bells upon my robe Before the four-faced silent cherubim: With God so near me, could I sing of God? I did not write, nor read, nor even think, But sate absorbed amid the quickening glooms, Most like some passive broken lump of salt Dropt in by chance to a bowl of œnomel, To spoil the drink a little, and lose itself, Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost. EIGHTH BOOK.